


Sink So Low (Undercover)

by Ciule



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Avebury ring, Back to Hogwarts, Dark Ritual, Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Forest of Dean, Friendship, Humiliation, I suppose it's a darkfic, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Orgasm Denial, Power Dynamics, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Riddle House (Harry Potter), Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, Spanking, Spring Equinox, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Tomione Smut Fest 2019, Tomione Trash, Undercover, Vaginal Sex, Virgin Sacrifice, Voldemort isn't nice, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 117,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21544054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciule/pseuds/Ciule
Summary: “You!” the monster on the throne suddenly barked, and with a sinking feeling, Hermione realized he was pointing at herself.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Voldemort
Comments: 1122
Kudos: 1539
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2019





	1. Undercover

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is not a story about heroism and glory. This is a story of conflict and descent, where things do not work out as planned. That’s not to say it isn’t a HEA. But if it is, it’s a dark one. 
> 
> This was originally a one-shot for the Tomione Smut Fest 2019, but I couldn't leave it be... *rolls eyes at self*  
> Prompt: Undercover.  
> 

The ache between her legs throbbed, and with a shiver of disgust, she felt the sticky remains of his release dribble down into her tattered knickers, wetting them even more. Squirming on her chair, she knew she looked as uncomfortable as she felt. 

Ron reached out a large, unsteady hand, patting her back, his eyes expressing an odd mix of hurt, powerlessness and rage. 

“Gods,” Harry groaned, running his hands through his messy hair. “It’s all my fault, and you … you shouldn’t have had to _do_ that. Sink so low … all because of me.” 

It had seemed like a great idea at the time. Risky, yes, but brilliant even, if their plan had succeeded. _But it hadn’t._

Xxxx

Apparating into a clearing, she could hear the revel from a distance. People were shouting and laughing, there were drums and pipes melding into an oddly rousing, but discordant melody, and sometimes abrupt screams. The flickering lights from bonfires lit up the darkness under the great trees. 

For a moment, she stood still, almost chanting to herself: _I can do this. I can do this. I can do this._ Taking a deep breath, she secured her Glamour firmly, before walking towards the revel. 

Xxxx

The plan had been deceptively simple, yet dangerous. While in the Forest of Dean, Hermione and the boys had overheard a couple of snatchers talking about the Dark Lord’s Spring Equinox Revel. 

“S’ going to be so good,” a large man groaned, licking his fingers free from chicken fat. The group of four men were sitting around a small fire, roasting chickens. 

_It was the smell of cooking that had drawn the trio to the camp. At this point, they were almost starving, and Hermione knew, her mouth wasn’t the only one watering by the thought of those chickens. To set her teeth into the tender meat, tearing at that crisp skin, feeling the juices run over her chin…._ If these people had been Muggles, they would have been Stunned and Obliviated, before mysteriously waking up, discovering that they missed their food. As it was, it was too dangerous to attempt stealing food from the snatchers. Instead, they listened. 

“I hear the Lord is setting up a real treat tomorrow,” another man mumbled, before he showed his ugly, yellow teeth in a lecherous grin. “Spring, y’ know. Fertility, and all that shit. Plenty of fresh, young girls, right in the middle of the old Avebury ring, up in Wiltshire by the Malfoys’ place.” 

“Aye. S’ going to be sooo darned good,” the first man repeated dreamily, a dirty hand palming his crotch. 

“That Bellatrix chit is in trouble, though, and won’t be serving his Lordship, or so I’ve heard. Dolohov told me after we made our report. She blabbered yesterday about hiding summat special for his Lordship in her Gringotts vault, and when he found out she was talking, then he Crucio’d almost the life out of her,” a third one chuckled. 

A fourth man grunted. “Never liked her. Nasty bitch, she is, can’t see what the Lord sees in her. Why he’d have a fucking psycho like her hiding something important is beyond me, not to mention sticking his dick in her.” 

“Wouldn’t mind having a go, if the Lord allows it,” the first one mumbled. 

But Harry, Ron and Hermione had heard enough. Scurrying silently away to their own camp, they almost couldn’t wait to discuss the intel. 

“It has to be a Horcrux,” Harry said with shining eyes. “It’s a lead, don’t you see?” 

“It has to be,” Ron said, a broad smile on his face. “All we need to do is to get to Bellatrix Lestrange, get her Gringotts key and get the Horcrux out.” 

“Yes!” Harry smacked his fist into his palm, before pumping his fist into the air two times. “We’ll go to that revel, catch Bellatrix Lestrange and get the Horcrux!” 

“Umm,” Hermione said, an exasperated sigh falling from her lips. “We can’t just waltz into You-Know-Who’s revel and kidnap Bellatrix. He’ll know you’re there, Harry!” 

_Sometimes, she wondered if their recklessness bordered on stupidity. Putting themselves in danger like that, right in the lap of You-Know-Who. Chances were, Voldemort would catch them before long._

“The Invisibility Cloak.“ Ron nodded sagely to himself, before continuing: “He’ll never see us.” 

“Absolutely,” Harry beamed. “So good, to finally do something!” 

“I hate to be the voice of reason,” she said, trying to curb the acidity in her voice, “but honestly, do you think You-Know-Who won’t notice you being in the vicinity, Harry? You can’t go.” 

“What?” Harry blinked, before he grimaced. “Fuck, you’re right as always, Hermione. He’ll know through that damned bond.” He stared despondently at the ground for a short while, before he lifted his head. “You two could do it, though,” he said, but the uncertainty in his eyes was telling. 

_Harry didn’t want to put his friends in danger, and no matter how much they had been through together, he always carried that insecurity that they wouldn’t be there for him. That they’d leave him if everything became too much._

Hermione felt a small catch in her heart, thinking of the small boy who had grown up in neglect by the Dursleys, but she said brusquely: “I’ll do it. Alone. You heard those snatchers: There’s going to be plenty of young witches no one knows at the revel. I can hide in the throng, while Ron will stick out more. Also, I can manage a little Occlumency, enough that my mind doesn’t stick out in the crowd, while none of you have the faintest clue.” 

“It’ll be dangerous,” Ron said, a worried crease between his eyebrows. “What if someone catches you, not _you,_ I mean, but what if someone tries to… you know…” his voice trailed off, and his face blushed into distinct crimson. 

Xxxx

Well, here she was, about to enter Voldemort’s Spring Revel, disguised as a rather unremarkable, dark-haired girl. She definitely didn’t want to attract any attention to herself, so plain Jane it was: On an undercover mission to steal Bellatrix Lestrange’s access key to that Gringotts’ vault. 

As she drew closer, the sounds grew louder. The buzz of voices talking, bursts of laughter, and also clinking of bottles and glasses. Obviously, people were drinking, gearing up for what they would do later. _Fornicating. Shagging. Fucking with abandon, to celebrate the spring, harnessing the powers of the Equinox for magical growth and strength._

Hermione had only a vague idea of what this ritual entailed, having not had any particular interest in old, quaint Pure-blood traditions. Right now, she wished she had had the opportunity to research the ritual better before landing herself in the middle of it, but being on the run, all possible libraries were out of the question. 

_Really, she had no wish at all to see Death Eaters going at it with each other. What if she saw someone like… Professor Snape? Draco? Or Merlin forbid, Crabbe or Goyle?_ Hermione felt bile rising in her throat at that thought, and she shuddered. 

The smell of bonfires filled her nostrils, and the scent of roasted pork wafted through the thinning trees. Hermione’s stomach growled loudly, and she decided: _eat first, then do your task._

Entering the enormous clearing, she was shocked to see there were literally _hundreds_ of witches and wizards present. Maybe even a thousand. _She had no idea, Voldemort had that many supporters._

The field had one very large, central bonfire, with several smaller fires scattered around it. People were milling around, talking and laughing, drinking and eating, while some were already embracing each other, lips locked in thorough snogging. Her cheeks burned at the thought of what she’d see later on. After all, the main purpose of this gathering would traditionally be … sex. _Sex to reap the power of spring, to enhance one’s magic, and that was the extent of her knowledge._ Feeling a bit prudish, she couldn’t help thinking that it was ...wrong … to have casual sex in public with strangers. Apparently, it was considered normal among Pure-bloods, though she knew, many Pure-blooded girls saved themselves for marriage. 

Squaring her shoulders, she sauntered up to one of the numerous smaller fires, her face haughty and arrogant like she belonged here among the Death Eaters and their cronies. _She would have to act like them, like she was a spoiled, little Pure-blood brat. A witch who wasn't interested in the main entertainment for the evening. A witch who waited for a husband._

“Hey,” a burly, middle-aged wizard said with a leer, nudging her arm. “You look nice.” He smelt of beer and spirits, and his eyes were already glazed. 

Shrugging, she said disinterestedly, though her heart was hammering in her chest: “Not now. I’m hungry.” 

“After, then?” he said hopefully, and she turned on the spot, staring him up and down, before she sniffed disdainfully. 

“No. Or rather: _Never_ , with someone like you.”

“Oh,” he said, looking slightly hurt at the insult. “It was a friendly question, no need to get so snippy, Miss.” 

She sniffed, but then her stomach growled again. With almost shaking hands, she helped herself to a large piece of roast. _It felt wonderful, and she almost moaned at the taste, the rich food filling her stomach so deliciously._ Vaguely, she recalled there was something about accepting food from the host’s fires in the ritual, but she couldn’t care less. Voldemort himself could have spoon-fed her, if only she could continue eating. 

Lost in the sensations of the food, she closed her eyes for a few moments, just chewing the savoury goodness, feeling her stomach finally, finally put that awful, hungry emptiness to rest. When she opened her eyes again, feeling almost drunk with the pleasure of being full, she saw to her shock, Severus Snape staring straight at her. 

Gasping, she felt her heart start to hammer again. The tall, dark-haired wizard looked angry and worried at the same time, mouthing silently at her: “GET AWAY!” 

With a small squeak, she almost nodded, but then, there was a busty young redhead sliding her arms around his waist, pulling him into a deep embrace, before dragging his head down into a passionate kiss. Hermione turned away quickly, ducking through the crowd. 

_That was close. But why had he warned her, instead of raising the alarm? How had he recognized her - was it her magical signature? Well, she supposed, that young witch would keep him occupied for a while. Her mouth turned down at the corners by the thought, but she shook it off. Teachers shouldn’t do those things in her book, but she supposed, she couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t a real teacher anyway, he was first and foremost a Death Eater._

Strolling through the crowd, she looked everywhere for wild dark hair and a cackling laughter. There was plenty of laughter, but she couldn’t see the telltale hair signifying Bellatrix. 

Close by, a man had pushed down the robes of a witch, suckling her nipple, hands clawing at her round breasts. The witch moaned, hips bucking, but an older wizard admonished them: “Wait, be a little patient. The Lord will begin the ritual. You’ll take your turn later.” 

With a sinking feeling, she realized: The Lestrange woman would be close to Voldemort, fallen from grace or no. Slowly, she slinked towards the great bonfire, where there was a wooden daise erected in an open space. 

Voldemort was sprawled on his throne, _a dreadful thing made of human bones, if she wasn’t mistaken,_ black robes hanging off his tall, thin frame. The pale, snake-like face was turned down towards his feet, like he was listening to the witch kneeling in front of him. 

It was Bellatrix, and she was obviously begging him for something. As Hermione hesitantly drew closer, she could hear her voice: “Please, Master, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything you want, my life is yours to do with as you please. Please, forgive me for my drunken lapse. I’ll never tell anyone again…” 

“Stop it, Bella,” the monster drawled, a fist closing in the woman’s wild hair, bending her head back, her neck at a precarious angle, like it would snap any moment. “You did the unthinkable, you betrayed my trust with your failure. Now, make sure you never do so again, and we’ll discuss the safety of my belongings later. You have not earned the privilege to be with me this night. Go away, give yourself to a youngster, someone of no importance, someone with no power to speak of. Or maybe even your husband - I don’t care.” 

The witch sobbed, but she crawled backwards as he let her hair go, before rising. With head bowed, she retreated slowly, and Hermione readied herself to stalk the woman. _Grab her, Stun her, get the keys…_

“You!” the monster on the throne suddenly barked, and with a sinking feeling, Hermione realized he was pointing at herself. _Oh gods, no, her Occlumency shields were strong enough to blend into a crowd, but she’d never best the Dark Lord if he invaded her mind purposefully._

But, she couldn’t run, that would lead to a certain death. _Visions of running, of Voldemort yelling “Avada Kedavra” after her, green light flashing and then … nothing … tore through her mind._ She’d have to pretend, to take the chance that she’d manage to keep her cover. 

On shaking legs, she moved forward, sinking down on her knees in front of the red-eyed wizard. 

“My Lord,” she said from almost bloodless lips, feeling as if all her blood had drained from her head, while simultaneously, there was a rushing sound in her ears. _She felt dizzy, almost like she was about to faint, almost like there was a thousand buzzing voices in her head, every voice she had ever heard talking all at once._

Voldemort cocked his head as he looked at her, tapping his lips, while the slits on his face, where his nose should have been, vibrated. 

“Curious,” he muttered. “Curious indeed.” A small, wicked smirk slipped across his face. “You, my dear, are a remarkably powerful witch. Cunning and bravery in a very curious blend. Yes…” 

Not understanding, she stared at him, avoiding to meet his red gaze, locking her eyes on the black fabric flowing over his broad frame. _He was very thin, but powerfully built, with broad shoulders. His hands were pale, like his face, with long fingers, the skin oddly mottled. Power radiated off him, like his magic was too much for his body, escaping his frame in slow, undulating waves, tendrils reaching for her, slithering around her body like a snake, leaving her unclean, filthy and despoiled._

Swallowing, she sat completely still, as the most evil man in Britain studied her carefully. 

Coming to a conclusion, he nodded to himself. “I’ll bestow the honour on _you,”_ he said decisively. Rising, he stretched out a hand to her. Heart in her throat, she felt like she should have been blabbering in fear, and hesitantly, confused, she took his hand. Even when she stood, he towered over her, his presence a suffocating, pulsing power, smothering her very being. 

Blinking, she had no idea what he was talking about, and his smirk widened. “You will be my consort for the evening. We’ll start the show, so to speak.” 

_No. No. No. This wasn’t happening. She had misunderstood, somehow. This was a mistake. Surely, he didn’t mean to…_

There was a sudden rush of magic from him, though he didn’t use his wand, nor did he say anything. When he opened his mouth to speak, his voice rang out over the whole field. 

“Friends, we are about to celebrate the power of spring, to enhance our power, to ensure our strength. You have partaken of the meal, and now, I will initiate our revel with this young witch. Gather round the altar, join me in the chant to raise our power.” 

Hermione felt nauseous. _There was no escape. A thousand Death Eaters would watch, as her virginity was taken by Voldemort himself. It seemed like a terrible nightmare, like a dream gone so wrong, descending into hellish visions._

The bonfire flickered, and Voldemort led her to a stone altar close to the fire. A small hiss went through the air, and all her clothes parted neatly in the middle, falling off her shoulders and hips, pooling down by her feet. 

Blinking, she slowly registered that she was naked, her clothes ruined, in front of hundreds of people. Someone in the crowd wolf-whistled, and a sudden, furious blush rose in her cheeks. 

“Behold, our maiden sacrifice!” Voldemort’s voice was a satisfied purr, and dread crept up her spine. _Maiden sacrifice? She fervently hoped, there was nothing more to it than her virginity, as if that wasn’t bad enough. Again, she wished she had spent more time studying ancient, Pure-blood customs and rituals. Would she be killed afterwards? Did her virginity make a difference?_ _And how did he know she was a virgin?_

Gooseflesh erupted, partly from fear and partly from the cold March air, and her nipples hardened in the chill, standing out like pink, little points. The wizard in front of her licked his lips, giving her breasts an appraising glance, before he reached out, hefting one in his palm, like he was weighing it. His hand was cold, surprisingly calloused, like he was using his hands for manual labour, possibly brewing. A small squeak fell from her lips, and he chuckled slowly, lasciviously. 

The crowd mumbled, moving closer in rustling sighs. 

“Down on your knees, girl,” he said, and a moan of anticipation went through the crowd. Feeling as she would burst with panic, she sank down on her knees, her legs meeting the cold, hard-trampled earth below. 

Voldemort took a step forward, parted his robes, and there it was. _A very large, erect cock, pale and thick, the head a weeping, angry red, pointing straight at her._

“Open up,” he said, grabbing her chin, and she barely had time to take in the situation, before her mouth was filled with him. She briefly noticed his taste - _salty, a little musky, but definitely clean, thank the gods for small mercies -_ before she choked, as he thrust himself into the back of her throat with a groan. 

“Yes, that’s good, girl,” he grunted, cock retreating, before he shoved himself back in. “Use your tongue, stroke me, and I’ll reward you later, girl. Get me nice and wet before I take you, if you know your own good.” 

The crowd snickered, as their Lord thrust in and out of her mouth. From the corner of her eye, she could see people grinding against each other, fondling breasts, hips, cocks and arses. But most of her vision was filled by him, pale skin framed by black robes, and the squelching sound of his cock moving in her mouth was loud in her ears. Tears were falling down her face, and occasionally, she gagged on him. While it was unpleasant for her, the effect seemed to be the opposite on him, as her gagging made him groan deeply with pleasure. 

Hermione tried to focus on something else. _This was happening, and she just had to endure it, but this wasn’t important, it wasn’t something she could change, this wasn’t about her. The important thing was to get out alive, preferably with Bellatrix’ key. This was just a … minor setback in the long run, though it certainly didn’t feel that way right now. She had to keep her perspective. She had to survive._

After what felt like a long time, though it had maybe lasted only minutes, he withdrew, fisting his long cock with one hand. 

“Get ready for your deflowering, little virgin witch,” he said lazily, his eyes hooded with lust. 

Slowly, she stood, legs shaking, and he backed her into the altar, lifting her to perch on the edge. 

The stone was cold underneath her thighs, uneven edges digging into her soft skin, but she was more concerned with the man parting her legs roughly, hands cold and harsh as they gripped her flesh. 

He began chanting: “ _Vernum Potentia, Creatio Fortum, Virgo Sacrificio,"_ and the crowd took up the chant, the hundreds of different voices mingling, some high and sing-song, some deep growls. Around her, magic was gathering, like it was sizzling in the air, growing to an impossible pressure around her, like a bubble about to burst, her heart hammering with the pulse of it. There was a building crescendo inside her, her body affected by the magic washing over her, and she panted, almost bucking under the pressure, feeling as if her body was taken over by magic itself, like her mind, will and body had been set aside. 

In front of her, the angry red head of his cock seemed to swell, twitching slightly, and just as she thought she’d have to scream to alleviate the drumming pulse of magic inside her - outside her - everywhere - the magic _was_ her, he surged forward, quickly positioning himself between her legs, and with a sharp thrust, he was inside her. 

The pain was piercing, sudden and hard, and she whimpered in shock as the crowd cheered. The magic changed from unbelievable pressure to slowly rolling waves, large swells moving lazily across the deep, building up as they crashed against the rocks, but her mind was screaming. _Voldemort was inside her, in a way she’d never imagined, tearing her apart, taking something from her that she’d never thought he’d ever want from someone like her._

He felt impossibly big inside her, like she was split apart, moving with rough thrusts, hands gripping her hips bruisingly hard. The tall wizard looming over her, back hunched as he thrust between her hips, and she could see the broad expanse of his pale, hard chest between his parted robes. Those red eyes were closed, his mouth slack with want, hips rocking his cock deeper inside her. 

Slowly, she came to realize that it didn’t hurt anymore. The ritual magic was taking over her body, making her compliant, short of breath, panting even, as her insides clenched around the large cock filling her up. 

“That’s it, girl, feel the spring power,” the man above her snarled, moving faster, pumping into her as the big thing inside her twitched, causing a frisson of pleasure deep inside her belly. “Let the ritual control you, share your magic, increase the strength, help me grow my power, little witch, give in, surrender to the ritual.” His eyes were now open, staring intently at her, and his magic pushed and prodded at her, forcibly demanding entrance to her own, just like his cock had speared her body. 

“No,” she mumbled weakly, staring up into the swirling red in his eyes, “no.” 

But the magic was overwhelming her, taking control, like she was dragged into a raging stream, and he smirked at her, eyes glittering wickedly, hands moving her body in time with his brutal thrusts, slamming her up and down his long cock. Involuntarily, a moan escaped her, and he groaned, thin lips stretching out in his face like he was straining with effort, eyes flashing with red-hot flames. 

Something was building inside her, and unwilling, she felt a strong tingling in her sex, her nipples suddenly hard and aching for touch. “Please,” she gasped, but she didn’t know what she begged for. _For him to stop, for him to touch her, for him to cease, for him to fuck her harder…? She didn’t know._

His head moved down like a snake about to strike, mouth clamping around her nipple, and she gasped, arching her back to present her breasts to him. His tongue swirled around her hard little bud, her belly clenched around the big cock invading her, claiming her. As another moan escaped her lips, she knew she had lost, and he had won. 

His victory grin was terrifying to behold, but she was too far gone, her sex trembling around him, her breath coming in pants and mewling little cries. _It didn’t matter, that the man taking her was the most evil wizard ever, it was so good, nothing mattered except his big cock and her slick, tight hold around him, the pleasure being much too overwhelming, growing inside her, swelling up into immensity, rushing towards an earth-shattering completion._

When he snaked one hand down to touch her clit, rubbing her firmly with a cold, long finger, stroking her hard, aching little nub, she crested, coming on Lord Voldemort’s cock, gasping, convulsing as her orgasm roared through her, the magic sharpening to an impossible brightness, like it was alive, like she was flying, like she’d live forever on this wave of power. Voldemort grunted, eyes widening, and then he roared out his release too, cock jerking hard inside her, sending spurts of hot come into her, coating her insides, as he shook above her, his chest heaving with the effort. 

For a brief moment, all was quiet, and then the crowd shouted: “To the glory of the Dark Lord! To our Lord! Power!” 

For a moment, he held still, before pulling his still twitching cock out of her. Sticky cream slithered out of her abused sex, and she stared up at him, appalled and shocked at her own fall. _How could she sink so low? Orgasming on her enemy’s cock?_

With a smirk, he whispered into her ear: ”Nice Glamour, Miss Granger. Give my regards to Potter. I’ll leave you with this memory of a truly successful Equinox ritual, in all respects. You might want to read up on the … aftereffects. As worthy an adversary as you are, little witch, even you cannot help being affected by this.” 

Xxxx

She had stumbled away, shocked to her core, gathering her tattered clothing around her. On her way back, she had seen a devastated, crying Bellatrix Lestrange on all fours, a young, pimpled wizard pounding into her from behind, and callously, recklessly - _after all, what more could go wrong on such a night?_ \- Hermione had nicked the woman’s clothing, finding a golden Gringotts key in a pocket. _They would have to hurry, before Bellatrix noticed it was gone. Before Voldemort took action, removing his Horcrux. He surely would, having read her mind, knowing who she was. But this, her sacrifice, couldn’t be for naught. They had to get to the Horcrux before he did._

Now, she had told everything to her friends. She felt emotionless, detached, like she was an empty shell, but still, her friends’ worry, concern and sorrow made a small impact on the hollowness inside her, making it feel … less desolate. 

“So, now I need to find out what he meant,” she said monotonously, not looking them in the eyes, her hands clutching hard, twisting, on top of her thighs. “Those aftereffects. Did I help him, in some way? Will something happen to me? The ritual is supposed to strengthen power,isn’t it? But whose? His or mine, or both? Will it tie me to him in some way?” 

“Umm,” Ron said, looking like he wanted to be miles away. “Umm, both of you will get an increased strength. But if this was a truly successful ritual… Oh, Hermione, then you are tied to him, sort of. Because if it was successful, like he said, then… oh gods, you’ll be pregnant.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm mangling the latin. The truth is, I know nothing about the language, and I'm basically piling words on top of each other from Google Translate. Don't kill me, if you know any latin...


	2. Underestimate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever happened, she was not about to meet Voldemort again. Not ever. That awful, despicable thing who had forced her to enjoy what he had done to her - no, she’d never face him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, and happy birthday to our big bad!

Looking back, it would be one of those things that seemed like a fairytale, or more accurately, a wild adventure or an action movie. Manipulating their way into Gringotts, escaping on the back of a dragon with the Hufflepuff cup, jumping from the air into a cold lake, while doing all that before lunch was close to unimaginable. Still, they had succeeded, in all probability before Bellatrix Letrange woke from her hangover. _And through it all, the aching soreness between her legs just wouldn’t go away, no matter the adrenaline rush. The soreness left by … his ... intrusion._

No matter the state of Bellatrix, Voldemort proved to be awake, though. As he discovered Harry’s jubilation after they had crawled ashore on a desolate moor, the dragon continuing north, never noticing the loss of its passengers, he lashed out through the connection between their minds, searing the young wizard into a painful collapse, Harry moaning as he clutched his head. He whispered hoarsely through whimpers of pain: “He’s coming, he’s _coming_.” 

“What? What do you mean?” said Ron nervously, grabbing Harry’s shoulder. 

Hermione could only see one possible solution. “ _Stupefy_!” she shrieked, vine wand clutched in her trembling hands, and Harry tilted face-forward into the soft earth with a thud. The spell had rocketed out of her wand with far greater force than she had anticipated, the red beam still visible, like it was hanging in the air, even after the impact. 

“What the hell, ‘Mione?” Ron’s voice was fearful, but she couldn’t spare a moment for his shock. _Whatever happened, she was not about to meet Voldemort again. Not ever. That awful, despicable thing who had forced her to enjoy what he had done to her - no, she’d never face him again._

“Come on, Ron!” she said impatiently, taking his hand and holding on to Harry as she turned on the spot, Apparating them through several steps into the Forest of Dean again. 

“What did you Stun him for?” Ron asked, part mystified and part accusing, kneeling by Harry’s still prone body, covering their friend with a blanket he dug out of her trusty beaded bag. 

She shrugged, fingers snagging in her curls as she tried to straighten her hair after the wild ride on dragonback. “If he’s not conscious, You-Know-Who can’t access his mind,” she said, sounding more callous than she felt. “Stop fussing with Harry, quickly now, bring out the Sword.” 

Comprehension dawned on Ron’s face, and he muttered: “Smart move, Hermione.” He fumbled with her beaded bag, pulling out the Sword, before placing the small, golden cup on the ground. He was about to drive it into the cup, when he stopped short. 

“Hermione,” he said, his throat working convulsively, like he was about to cry, “this one’s on you. You’ve … _deserved_ this, you’ve paid for this with more than you ever should have had to. You kill it.” 

Fighting tears, she nodded, feeling as if this was her right. _She had earned this, the opportunity to destroy a part of Voldemort’s soul._

Gripping the Sword of Gryffindor, she took a deep breath. _Fuck you, Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle, You-Know-Who or whatever you call yourself! You abused me and maybe even impregnated me, now I’m killing a part of you!_

The snarl on her face made Ron take a hurried step backwards. With all her force, she drove the tip of the sword into the golden cup. A wedge opened, and there was a loud hiss, and black smoke curled up from it, forming into the menacing shadow of Lord Voldemort. The stench of sulphur hung heavily in the air. 

“You would destroy me, girl?” The voice of the Horcrux slithered sibilant out of it’s hollow mouth, and she darted a glance at Ron. _Was the Horcrux supposed to talk?_

Her friend frowned, before he shouted at her: “Go on, put some force to that sword! It talked to me and Harry too, when we destroyed the locket. Don’t listen to it!” 

The Horcrux laughed cruelly. “Oh, little witch, did you tell them how you moaned and trembled around my cock? Did you tell them how you orgasmed with me, as I took you hard in front of my people? Would your friends see you differently if they knew you came for the Dark Lord? That you moaned as I turned you into my dirty, little Mudblood whore?” 

Her breath grew ragged, mortification colouring her scarlet. _No, she hadn’t told them about her own magically induced arousal. It had been too shameful, too terrible, even though she knew it was the spell. It wasn’t her, it was the magic. But what if they didn’t believe her? What if it wasn’t the ritual magic, what if it_ **_was_ ** _her? What if she actually was … that?_

“Don’t listen to it!” Ron shouted, his ears growing red, as the Horcrux swayed like smoke on an invisible breeze. “Kill it!” 

Snapping out of her private hell, she tugged the sword upwards from the wedge, driving it with all her might into the cup again, cracking it open. With an ear-splitting wail, the shadow disappeared, combusting in the air like thousands pieces of pulverized glass. 

Panting, she stood over what now resembled a twisted and seared piece of metal. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to Ron. As she had feared, he looked at her with abject horror. 

Xxxx

They didn’t dare to wake Harry, keeping him under the spell for a time. 

“At least, even You-Know-Who can’t be prowling to find Harry at all hours of the day. Let’s wake him up later,” Ron said, avoiding her eyes. 

She only nodded, feeling as if all fight had left her. _Her mission had been successful, but to what end? Now Harry and Ron would think she was a… a … a whore, like the Horcrux had revealed._

They busied themselves by erecting the tent, Hermione setting the wards around the perimeter. _Her strength HAD indeed increased after the ritual, and she marvelled at the ease she now was able to produce the heavy warding. It felt like her magic was dancing on the tips of her fingers, all for her to command._ She tried setting the Silencing Spell both wandless and wordless, and it was so inexplicably easy. It was clear, whatever had happened in the ritual, her magic had gained from it. _A lot. She would have felt good about it, enjoying her new strength, if it wasn’t for … that._

Harry was placed on his cot, tucked into his blanket and made as comfortable as possible, green eyes wide open and unseeing. 

“Will the spell wear off?” Ron asked nervously, dragging a hand through his too-long, red hair, soot and dirt smudging his face after their romp through the Gringotts’ tunnels. 

“Ron!” she scoffed. “How many years have you known the Stunning Spell? You know it doesn’t dissipate. We need to release it.” 

“Alright, alright,” he said, ears turning red, before he went outside, starting to make a small fire. 

Staring at Harry, wondering if he’d be angry with her upon waking, wondering if he’d throw her out of the Horcrux search when he learned what had happened, she shivered. For a moment, blind panic filled her. _She could be wrong, tricking herself into believing that the ritual magic had made her aroused, her mind repressing the memory of her own shameful behaviour. Was she really the kind of girl who’d get off on having public sex with a powerful wizard? She knew herself well enough to realize that she was attracted to knowledge, and there certainly weren’t anyone more knowledgeable than Voldemort._

Shivering with a kind of fascinated disgust, she stood stock still, pondering the deviousness of the human mind. _Why all this self-doubt? She knew what had happened, having felt the insistent pounding of the ritual magic in her very being. Why would the ghost of a soul remnant spook her so?_

Feeling slightly nauseous, she shrugged herself out of her thoughts. _There were things to take care right now, and priority number one, no matter how humiliating it felt, was to talk to Ron._

Steeling herself, she walked outside to sit by the fire with him. 

Ron grunted in acknowledgment, and she took a deep breath. _This was the boy she had been daydreaming of for years. She had thought they’d be a couple, getting married, living their life together. But all those burgeoning feelings had died when he left her and Harry before Christmas. Him coming back couldn’t make up for the loss and betrayal she had felt, and she knew, while Ron was a good friend, she’d never trust him enough to be her partner. But those past feelings, which she had been almost sure was mutual, made this conversation even more awkward._

“I know what you’re going to say,” he began, and Hermione started. _Sometimes, Ron was more perceptive than she anticipated._

“Uh huh,” she grunted. 

Ron sighed. “I won’t tell anyone what it said. I would think this was all a lie, but for your reaction. I’m not going to pry, but _really_ , Hermione?” 

“It was the spell,” she said dully. “I wasn’t strong enough to fight it. So it’s true. I did … orgasm. I couldn’t help it, but you must believe me, I didn’t want to!” 

“Alright,” he said quickly, and now his entire face, not only his ears, were red. 

Hermione knew, she was beet-red herself. For a while, they bot sat still, staring at the small, crackling fire. 

Clearing his throat, he said: “I don’t know much about those rituals, and how they work. I know people see it like a giant ...sex fest … or something, in which you gain power, and if you truly nail the ritual, there will be an Equinox child as a result. I had no idea the spell would force the witch to… I mean, no one in my family observe those rites. It’s mostly Pure-blood freaks like the Malfoys who goes through with the old traditions.” 

“I wish I had known more about the ritual,” Hermione whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. “Was this how it’s supposed to be? My sole sexual experience is with You-Know-Who! What’s normal? Will I ever be able to do _that_ as a normal girl? I feel like … something is destroyed, even before it began.”

“Oh Hermione,” he muttered, before stretching out a burly arm, gathering her into a crushing hug. 

Xxxx

They decided to keep Harry under for a few days, trying to throw of Voldemort. 

“Even he can’t watch Harry’s mind around the clock for a week,” Ron said, “he has to do other things too.” 

“No more than three days,” Hermione countered decisively, “or else he’ll starve.” 

“I’d be starving after half a day,” Ron muttered, and it made her chuckle. 

“I’ll believe that,” she said, giving him an amused glance. 

During those days, they attended to their things, repairing tears and rift in the tent and their clothing, and hunted for food. It was far easier to find food for two people, so they weren’t starving for the time being. _She felt bad for Harry, though._

In the evenings, they sat around the fire, keeping watch, talking about anything and nothing, or just stargazing. Those times, Hermione fervently wished everything had been different. _That Ron hadn’t left, that she hadn’t been raped by Voldemort, that they were just two young people on the verge of falling in love. Like … a new experience could cleanse her from the dirt she felt clinging to her, like Voldemort’s filthy seed still were inside her. In a way it could be, she supposed, if she truly were pregnant. But she wouldn’t be able to test for it for another week._

 _Dear Merlin, she might actually_ **_be_ ** _pregnant, by Voldemort. What would Voldemort do? Would he try to get hold of the child to raise it as his heir, or was he the kind of wizard who liked to ‘sow wild oats’, so to speak? She had no idea, having never heard anything about Voldemort being involved with witches at all. It had seemed like Bellatrix Lestrange had had some expectations for the night, but who knew?_

Silently, she made a vow to herself. _If there indeed was a child, she’d never surrender it to Voldemort. No child should be raised by a monster, even when the monster in question had fathered the child._

Shivering slightly, she rubbed her arms. 

“Come here,” Ron said gently, reaching out a hand, and gratefully, she leaned into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. 

“I want everything to be different,” she whispered. “I want to let go of what happened to me.” 

“Think about the Horcrux,” he said gruffly. “Thanks to you, it’s gone. We’re one step closer to kill You-Know-Who.” 

“I know. But still, I … I just want to feel like this didn’t happen. I want to be normal.” 

Silently, he rubbed her arms, his hands warm and comforting against that perpetual cold that seemed to have crept into her bones since all this happened. 

“Like this,” she continued, “just sitting like this with someone I love, and then a kiss, and maybe some more. This is how it should have happened.” 

“You’d deserve that,” he muttered, “you deserve the best, Hermione.” 

Their eyes met, and an unspoken question hovered in the air between them. The air felt thick, heavy with anticipation, and goosebumps formed on her arms. 

Slowly, Ron lowered his head to her, gently, as if not to spook her, and their lips met. 

His lips were warm and dry, and she revelled in the fact that she felt _safe._ Ron would never hurt her, would never force her into anything. But at the same time, there wasn’t anything like that wild excitement from the ritual, there was no spark of wildfire in her veins - just a gentle pressing of lips against each other. _Nothing like that sick thrill she had felt with Voldemort, the raging fire of ecstasy devouring her body, mind and soul. Not the soul-wrenching rapture when her body sang to his rhythm… Oh gods, what was she thinking? This was… unacceptable!_

Ron shifted, opening his mouth more, and she responded, eyes blinded with inexplicable tears, opening her mouth to him. His tongue came out, moving gently against hers, and the only thing she felt was that it was _wet_ . _Wet, and not exciting at all._

For a while, they kept it up. Hermione realized slowly that this, this would never work, not in a million years. It was disappointingly _boring,_ and she wondered how she could let Ron down on this as gently as possible. _She didn’t want to give him any false expectations. This wasn’t what she expected, or wanted. This should be a heady blast, like an electric charge moving through her veins, just like it had been ...no!_

Suddenly, Ron broke the kiss, shuddering, like he was revolted. “I can’t do it. I really can’t, I’m sorry, ‘Mione. I’m only thinking about the fact that HE touched you.” 

It felt like a brutal slap in the face. _Like proof of her being tainted by Voldemort, no one would ever want her again, and she’d_ **_never_ ** _be normal. Not even her best friend could manage to kiss her without feeling disgusted by her._

A deep, wracking sob rose from her chest, and she turned away from him, curling up like a little ball, rocking forward, hiding her face at her knees. 

“It’s nothing personal,” Ron said, his voice thick too, one hand patting her back awkwardly, “I just … can’t.” 

Xxxx

The next day, they woke up Harry, having prepared breakfast first. Harry wasn’t angry, but he was ravenous, being so busy eating that he at first didn’t notice the awkwardness between Ron and Hermione. 

“What is it?” he finally said, after an hour, levelling a questioning stare at the two of them. “What happened when I was out. Did you quarrel, or something?” 

Ron shrugged, before rising. “I’m going to look after firewood,” he muttered, giving Hermione a covert glance, before he ambled off into the forest. 

She realized he was letting her take the lead to decide what she wanted to tell Harry. It was a decent thing to do, sort of, but still, it felt like Ron was deserting her - again. 

Sighing, she resolved to tell Harry everything. _Better to do it this way, than him finding out in any other way._

Harry listened to her story with open mouth, and by the end of it, he said furiously: “He’s such a jerk!” 

“Who?” she asked tiredly. “You-Know-Who or Ron?” 

“Well, You-Know-Who obviously is the greatest jerk ever, but I mean Ron. Wat was he thinking!” 

“I don’t know,” she said, surprised by Harry’s reaction. If anything, she had expected him to side with Ron, or being angry at her for giving in to the ritual spell. 

Harry shook his head. “You’re in a vulnerable state, and him doing that … I can only imagine what you must have felt. He’s just so... Come here, let me give you a hug.” 

Sniffling, she crept up to him, and Harry gathered her into a bear-crushing hug, squeezing her until she almost couldn’t breathe. Silly tears of relief coursed down her cheeks, as she burrowed her head into his shoulder. _Harry was on her side. Ron too, in his own way, but Harry - he understood how she felt. And it felt like a huge burden had been unloaded: Her friends knew she had been overcome by that ritual, acting in a way she’d never, ever done willingly, and they_ **_believed_ ** _her. This way, it felt a little easier believing it herself._

Xxxx

Over the week, the tension had eased up. Harry had shouted at Ron when he returned from his wood gathering mission, but now, it was all out in the open, and they all felt better for it. Still, she continued to wake up two or three times at night from her recurring nightmare of the ritual. _Though, sometimes, she woke hot and flustered, her core throbbing with aching need, wanting something or someone, wanting … NO, she wouldn’t go there, never. She wouldn’t allow her mind to complete that line of thought, no matter what the obviously insane part of her mind that conjured her dreams were thinking._

Now, it was time to check for pregnancy. They all knew the spell, having had a cringeworthy lesson in their fifth year where McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey had told them about the “facts of life,” as the two old witches had dubbed it. 

The boys squeezed her hands, and she choked out: “I hope…” 

They nodded, but the seriousness in their eyes wasn’t reassuring. Taking a deep breath, like she was about to walk to her doom, she grasped her wand, whispering: “ _Investio Infans.”_

The spell took hold of her, tickling her abdomen, before a golden-greenish glittering light emerged from her belly, hovering just outside her. 

The colour was beautiful, she distantly noted, but the blood drained from her face, and she whispered weakly: “No…” 

“You might have done it wrong,” Harry said desperately, repeating the spell himself. Anew, the colour seemed to seep from her stomach, pulsing softly. 

“Merlin,” Ron muttered, his eyes following the last pulsing dots as the spell faded. For a moment, the three of them sat still. 

Then Harry sighed. “It was too much to hope for, wasn’t it? A wizard like _him_ wouldn’t botch a ritual, would he?” 

“No,” she said flatly. “He probably wouldn’t.” _And now, she knew there was truly a piece of Voldemort inside her, alive, growing and developing with her every breath._

Nausea was rising, and she rose, stumbling outside, vomiting just outside the tent. 

The boys came after her, strong hands from each side patting her back, one of them gathering her hair back as she bent over, her stomach emptying itself in hard convulsions. 

It seemed to last a long time - making her wonder if she had eaten more than she knew in the last day - but in the end, she staggered back, waving a wandless “ _Tergeo”_ at herself and the ground, making the sharp, foul tang of vomit instantly disappear. 

Hugging herself, she walked over to a rock, sitting down with her head in her hands. Inside, there was only one thought on repeat: _No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No._

“Have some water,” Ron said, his voice almost a croak, pushing a glass into her hands. 

Automatically, she lifted it to her lips, drinking in big gulps to rinse her mouth. 

Her head hurt, and she felt almost feverish. _It couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t._ She whipped out her wand, repeating the spell, with the same result. With dry eyes, she stared at the light emerging from her stomach. 

“What are you going to…” Harry began, but she interrupted him: 

“I’m going to get rid of it. As soon as possible.” 

“You need to go to St. Mungo’s for that,” Ron said weakly, “it’s too dangerous to attempt out here in the woods.” 

“I know,” she said, “but I can’t show up there. I have to take the chance. I need to prepare first, we might have to do some brewing, Blood-Replenishment Potions and the like. Or maybe I could go to a Muggle apothecary, or even a Muggle doctor.” 

“Maybe we could ask your parents for help,” Harry said, looking at Ron. “The Order might have some connections. I’m not sure Muggle medicine would work properly, remember, Madam Pomfrey said magical maladies and pregnancies are a bit different. At least, we should find out if it’s possible before we take any steps in that direction. Your Mum would know, wouldn’t she, Ron?” 

Hermione felt as she would be eternally grateful for Harry saying ‘we.’ It made her feel less alone in this, knowing that her friends wouldn’t desert her, even when she carried the heir of their enemy. 

Ron brightened up, and he said: “Yes. Should I go alone at first to ask? It’s a little easier hiding one person sneaking in, than the three of us.” 

“Please do,” Hermione said, feeling a small hope fluttering in her chest. _Molly Weasley would know. What that woman didn’t know about magical pregnancies, probably wasn’t worth knowing. Mrs. Weasley would help find a solution._

Then, she froze. _What would Mrs. Weasley think of her?_ In a sudden panic, she blurted out: “Ron, please, don’t tell her who the father is.” 

“I have to say something,” Ron said uneasily, “or else she’ll think it’s, well…” 

Both Harry and Ron looked shifty-eyed at each other, and Hermione blushed. _It was obvious what Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would believe._

Harry groaned. “Gods, Ron, just tell your mother that Hermione was raped. Period. You don’t have to say anything about who. Is that alright, Hermione?” 

“I guess,” she said with uncertainty. _She didn’t want anyone to know, really, because she felt so ashamed. But letting Molly believe Ron or Harry was the father of her child would be… Gods, she could only imagine how the woman would perk up, if she thought there were grandchildren on their way, and how she’d simultaneously scold them for being so careless while on the run. No, this was for the best._

Ron nodded, and then he turned on the spot, Apparating to the Burrow. 

Xxxx 

The wait felt like an eternity, Harry and Hermione sitting quietly, each brooding, sometimes fidgeting, waiting anxiously for Ron to return. 

The sharp CRACK! of Apparition made them both start, jumping up from their seats, rushing out of the tent to meet Ron. 

Hermione held her breath as he walked towards them, but from the grim set of his face, she knew it wasn’t all good news. 

“You should sit down,” he began, hands in his pocket, rocking at his feet. Hermione sank down on the large rock, just outside the tent flap, but Harry remained standing behind her, slowly massaging her tense shoulders. 

“Mum says going to a Muggle doctor is out of the question. It can be very dangerous, depending on how much magic the child has inherited from the parents. And by all means, we mustn’t try to perform the abortion ourselves. That could be even more dangerous, as the spell is difficult to master.” 

His eyes were downcast, and Hermione felt like she was freezing. _A child by herself and Voldemort… Chances were, the child would be powerful, perhaps very much so._

“But,” Ron said, giving her a small smile, “Mum says the Order has contacts at St. Mungos. They might be able to arrange something, maybe getting a mediwitch to see you at the Burrow, camouflaging the whole visit as a social call. Her and Dad are on the case, and I’m going back to see them tomorrow to get some news. The mediwitch should be able to perform the abortion spell at the Burrow, as this is so very early in the pregnancy.” 

The whoosh of breath she let out felt like a million tons off her shoulders. _She would be able to get rid of the child. There would be no spawn of Lord Voldemort and Hermione Jean Granger, she wasn’t to give that evil monster an heir._

“Thank Merlin,” Harry whispered reverently behind her, his hands squeezing her shoulders. 

“Thank you, Ron, for making this possible,” Hermione croaked out, her voice not working properly. “Thank you, and your family. This … this means the world to me.”

Xxxx

The Burrow looked as rickety and welcoming as it had ever been, even though it was late at night. The only light came from a few stars and the small lantern hung outside the kitchen entrance. As they made their way through the garden, an irritated gnome garbled something incomprehensible as Ron managed to trample it. 

“It bit me, that little fucker!” Ron swore softly, and if their errand hadn’t held such significance for her, Hermione would have laughed. 

They slipped inside, into the darkened kitchen, and suddenly, the trio were surrounded by the open arms of Molly and Arthur. 

“You poor girl,” Molly sniffled, crushing Hermione to her. “You must have been so scared, my darling girl. We’ll sort this out, love, don’t worry about a thing.” 

Somehow, it felt so good to lay down her burden, to know someone else would be in charge of fixing things for her, that Hermione burst out crying. _Someone would take care of her, for once, instead of her fixing things for everyone else._

“There, girl, there, everything will be alright eventually,” Molly crooned, while Arthur patted her back awkwardly. 

Then the Weasley matriarch became stern. “We can’t have any lights, but now, you three sit down to have a proper meal, If Ron told the truth, you haven’t been eating enough by far, all of you. There’s broth, warm rolls and butter, and off you go to bed. Our visitor will arrive at noon.” 

Xxxx

The mediwitch, Lynn McLonghorn, was a soft-spoken woman in her forties, and Hermione supposed, her bedside manner was very soothing. Though, it didn’t seem to work, as Hermione felt far from calm. 

The tiny bedroom was cramped, with Hermione on the bed, Molly and Ron standing in the corners, and the mediwitch on a spindly, wooden chair beside the bed. Earlier on, they had decided it was for the best if Harry remained in hiding. At the very least, two Undesirables was better than all three, if the poor witch was ever caught and interrogated by servants of the fallen Ministry. As this was happening in the Weasley house, it was hardly necessary to leave Ron out. It would be sort of obvious that he was involved. 

“So, sweetheart, call me Lynn. I can see why you are in no position to care for a child. Accidents happen to the best of us, and you’re not the first witch to have slipped up when casting the Contraception Charm in a heated moment.” 

Her voice was kind, and her baby-blue eyes looked at Hermione, then to Ron, with amusement. 

Hermione could see Ron stiffened, but he managed an awkward grin. Molly just shrugged at Hermione, behind the back of the mediwitch, her eyes telling her to let it slide. _It was better than the truth,_ Hermione supposed. 

“First, I’ll examine you, to see how far you are along and check up on your health, and then we’ll see to the procedure. As you probably know, it’s a complicated spell, and you will, unfortunately, experience some heavy bleeding and stomach cramps. It will be painful, my dear, so I’ll leave you with some Pain-Killing Potions and Blood-Replenishing Potions. Afterwards, I want you to take it easy for a week or two. You might also experience some hormonal swings. Even when you are sure about wanting the procedure, it’s normal to feel a sense of loss. This is no easy way out, darling.” 

Hermione nodded. “I know,” she whispered. “But … I need to get it done.” 

“Well, let me check your health. There…” Lynn pointed her elm wand at Hermione: “ _Diagnostica_!” 

Green little digits and number flashed in the air, the mediwitch nodding and humming as she read. Looking at Hermione, she said: “You’re underfed. It’s a good thing you aren’t going to carry the baby to term, or else I would have insisted that you followed a strict regime on Nourishment Potions and healthy food as to not harm the baby.” 

Hermione gave a weak smile, thinking of all those meager suppers with only burnt mushrooms in the forest. _Yes, she could very well believe her health wasn’t up to par._

“Now, for the baby…” New lights flashed up from her abdomen, as Lynn moved her wand across the flat expanse of Hermione’s belly. 

The lights pulsed, still with those golden-green colours, arranging themselves into patterns that Hermione didn’t even begin to comprehend, but the mediwitch seemed to be able to read something out of it. She swished her wand at the lights, and suddenly, the lights flared up, into an almost incandescent brilliance, before gradually dimming. 

The mediwitch furrowed her brows, saying hesitantly: “I’m not at all sure I can do this. The child is… uncommonly strong, rooted very deep in your magic… We’ve seen such a rare surge in magical pregnancies this week… Tell me, is this an Equinox baby?” 

Molly gasped, looking at Hermione with horror. 

Stricken, Hermione nodded. _It was supposed to turn out alright. She was going to get rid of this. And now it seemed like even more trouble might be heading her way…?_

Lynn tutted. “Not a good idea to mess with a ritual like that, if you cannot risk a pregnancy. An Equinox baby is stronger, and it will be dangerous to abort such a child, with a high risk of the mother dying too. Funnily, it seems like there was a very strong ritual somewhere this spring. Unusually many witches have become pregnant. Still, normally it should be possible to abort, though… Unless you were the main act in the ritual? That would explain the readings. If so, then...” 

Hermione bit her lip, tears pooling, and Ron inched forward, squeezing her hand. 

“Yes,” she whispered, “it was the main… act. So to speak.” 

As the mediwitch slowly shook her head, the denial jarringly loud, even though she didn’t say a word, Hermione couldn’t take it. She burst into tears, turning on the bed, burrowing into her pillow, clutching it desperately. _She couldn’t breathe, no, there had to be a way out, there had to be…_

Like from a distance, she heard Lynn say sternly: “You, young man, you should have known better. And while on the run too? I can’t believe how stupid you were, tricking this poor girl into this.” 

Whatever happened behind her back, she didn’t care, being lost in the panic threatening to overwhelm her. There were a few pats on her back, mumbling voices, and then the door opened and shut again, footsteps retreating. 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, trying to convince herself this was a nightmare. _A nightmare, of the exceptionally hellish sort._

After some time, the door opened again, and people entered again. 

“Hermione,” she heard Harry’s voice, desperately anxious. “Hermione, turn around, talk to us.” 

Unwillingly, she turned around, seeing the room filled with now Harry, Ron and Molly. _Bitterly, she supposed the only reason Arthur wasn’t there too, was because it was noon on a Tuesday._

Molly looked both very concerned and confused. “Who … what happened to you, Hermione? Were you assaulted at a ritual? Why ever did the three of you go to a ritual when you’re on the run? And as the main act? Please tell me, Hermione, you didn’t tag along just for these two lads to get laid with some Pure-blood slut, did you?”

“Mum!” Ron said, his ears red. 

“Sweetheart, we may not practise the ritual, but we do know happens,” Molly said primly. 

Hermione said quietly: “I was undercover. Then HE caught me, and made me the main act. With him.” 

There was a shocked silence, and Harry and Ron exchanged glances. They had obviously not expected her to tell the truth. 

Molly’s voice fell to a whisper: “Him… you mean HIM? Is he the father…? Merlin, oh, Hermione, you … You … going through …. that … with … him… Poor girl!” 

Even though her life had just been destroyed yet again, it felt like a relief, like a catharsis as Molly enveloped her in her arms, hugging her to her chest. 

Xxxx

  
  


Potter was emotional _again_. _Merlin_ , how he hated that, when the boy’s feelings spilled over through the bond. 

Voldemort sighed, scratching his chin. The morning stubble was itchy, and not for the first time, he wondered why this body managed to grow a beard, while the rest of it remained bare. 

With an angry flick of his fingers, the shaving spell smoothed his chin and cheeks, and he leaned back in his reading chair, trying to think about anything but the inner turmoil of the ‘boy who lived to bother him’, trying to focus on his book instead. _How on earth the boy survived with all those feelings inside, Voldemort couldn’t even begin to understand. Potter was a mess._

His servants, three of them today, stood silently in attendance in the library. One by a small table with carafes of Port, Absinthe and Firewhisky, another by the fireplace to tend the roaring fire. The third was guarding the door, making sure that he wasn’t disturbed when reading. 

Giving up the attempt to ignore the boy, the emotions running rampant through the bond and making him slightly queasy, he decided instead to listen in on what the trio was doing. 

Smirking, he realized, young Granger had just began to learn what the full effects of the Equinox ritual had been. _She had been such a pleasant surprise, with the potential of becoming very powerful, and her mind was beautifully structured, logical, rational and razor sharp. Her thoughts had jumped out from the crowd at the ritual like a beacon, shining like a sun among lesser stars._

_It hadn’t hurt that she was a pretty little slip of a girl, either, behind that Glamour._

In a spur of the moment, he had decided that the little Mudblood was good enough breeding material to produce his heir, thus making the ritual significantly stronger than he had originally planned. Now, he’d have to see about reining her in, to get control of her and the child. _Yes, the Granger girl would be a pleasure to catch._

Voldemort shifted, feeling his cock stir, the heavy black silk of his robes rustling against his growing member. _And then she had destroyed his Hufflepuff Horcrux. He was quite sure Potter wasn’t - couldn’t be - the brains behind that operation. It was her. While he still was angry, he had to admit, she had both cunning and nerve. Breaking in at Gringotts like that… That callous ruthlessness and thirst for knowledge set her apart from other witches. Her actions had proved her as a good choice, the child would most certainly be powerful._

 _And, Granger had felt good around his cock._ He didn’t indulge often, but somehow in the last two weeks after taking Granger, he had thought quite a few times about how her tight pussy had convulsed around him at the same time her mind projected anger and resentment at him. _She hadn’t wanted it, not anything even remotely resembling what had happened, but she had, nevertheless, ended up moaning as he filled her, her surrender delightfully conflicted. And truth be told, he wanted to experience that again._

He shifted again, his face growing grim. Being tied down by his body’s desires wasn’t something Lord Voldemort _did_ do. _Those times he did indulge, was all about the magic. Like the ritual: It was about expanding his magic, not satisfying his traitorous body._ Scowling, he tried to rationalize his actions. The girl had proved to give him an all too delicious increase in power. It was no wonder he thought about her. _Yes, that was it. He needed that power rush, not the girl._

The minions present squirmed, knowing that this look on their Lord’s face wasn’t a good sign. Amused, he watched how the Malfoy witch tried to sidle out of the library, abandoning her post by the fire in the hope of escaping her Lord’s attention. 

Flicking his fingers, the lock of the mighty, carved doors to the Malfoy library clanged, bolts sliding over the doors, shutting with a boom, and the stately blonde witch started, before turning around, wide blue eyes trained on his frame. Voldemort felt himself smile in anticipation. 

His cock tented the fabric of his robes, and he stared down at his lap for a moment, before leering at Narcissa Malfoy. _There were other ways to amuse himself in the meantime than by sex. But when he caught Granger, it would be a wicked pleasure indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm going to do a Voldemort POV too! I'm so looking forward to that. *grins*


	3. Underway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She grimaced. “He can fuck off, because he’s not going to find me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for receiving this story so well! <3

Her teeth tore into the warm buttered roll, freshly baked from Molly’s kitchen. Her cup of scalding black tea sat beside her plate, and Hermione found, she wasn’t able to concentrate on _anything_ except the present. _Both the past and the future were too awful to contemplate._

The rich taste filled her mouth, and she chewed, washing it down with tea. 

“Hermione, please, you must listen,” Molly said warily. “Please, I know this must be terrible for you, but we need to talk about what you can expect.” 

“I don’t want to expect anything,” she mumbled stubbornly, but her throat felt thick and constricted as a hand - _Harry’s, she believed -_ patted her back. 

“I know,” Molly sighed, “but … I don’t know how to help you with that. I can, however, help you with how to handle your … pregnancy.” 

Hermione slammed her cup down, sloshing tea all over the table. Beside her, Ron tutted disapprovingly, Conjuring a towel to wipe the table and dry the tea off. 

“No pregnancy talk!” she barked furiously, “I don’t want to BE pregnant!” 

“We know,” Ron said gently, while Harry continued to stroke her back gently in small, soothing circles. “You need to listen, because Mum is going to tell you how to take care of yourself, to make sure you don’t harm your baby.” 

She snorted bitterly. “I can’t see why not. To hurt HIS baby would be a service to the world, don’t you think? Is there anything I can do to make sure it’s born a Squib?” 

All three present drew a shocked breath, and Harry murmured: “Please, Hermione, I know you don’t mean that. The baby is innocent, and deserves the best we can give it.” 

Her rage almost boiled over, but determinedly, she forced it down. _They were well-meaning, only wanting to take care of her, but they had no idea how it felt. To carry Voldemort’s child, a tangible result of him defiling her, was a terrible thing. She’d never be able to get over that night in the Avebury ring. Every time she looked at that child, no matter after they had defeated Voldemort, as they surely would, she’d be reminded of him, of her own shameful fall, how she had been conquered by his magic, how she had submitted to his body. And most of all: How she doubted herself after what had happened. Those dreams she had..._

Groaning, she butted her head hard into the table top, welcoming the sharp pain, before she straightened herself. Molly, Ron and Harry looked so worried, so afraid, she almost wanted to laugh. _They were just along for the ride, they had no idea of how this was like for her._ And suddenly, it struck her: _This must be how Harry feels, all the time._ That thought sobered her, and she sighed, wincing as she gingerly traced the bruise forming on her brow. 

“Alright,” she said with a forced calm. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to do anything rash, but I need a moment. Can we stay until tomorrow? I need to … process this a bit more.” 

Xxxx

Staying over wasn’t advisable, but at least she got a reprieve until Arthur came home. Somehow, it heartened her that Arthur actually cried over her predicament. 

Sniffling, he shook his head. “He must have known who you were all along. He knows how important you are to Harry, and to the Order. I think this was a convenient way to side-line you, at least for a while.” 

“I suppose so,” she said bitterly. “At the very least, I can’t go traipsing around in the woods with a small baby.” 

“Not while you’re heavily pregnant either,” Molly said sternly, “and for starters, we need to organize a few drop-points of food, setting up a pick-up schedule. You need more food, and the mediwitch said a strict regime of Nourishment Potions too. Arthur, we need to find a reliable brewer. Shame about Severus…” her voice dropped. 

“Yes, well… We’ll look into that. Maybe George and Fred can do it without mucking it up,” Arthur said, looking uncomfortable. There was a short silence, before he continued: “So, let me get this straight, you and You-Know-Who performed the ritual, and all requirements were met for truly successful ritual, resulting in an Equinox baby? I mean, you ate the food from his fires, the magic was obviously performed expertly, you were a … a.. I mean, you were untouched, and then you both … ahem .. at the same time?” 

“Yes, yes, yes and yes,” she said morosely, adding: “It was the ritual, it wasn’t me!” 

“Sure, sure,” Arthur and Molly said hurriedly, glancing at each other. That look felt like a needle in her guilt. _Was there something she didn’t know? Wasn’t the ritual supposed to make her…? Oh Merlin…_ Steeling herself, she forced her insecurity and guilt down, with a small wave of nausea. _There were more important things to think about right now._

“Well, at least it is so that the more powerful the couple, the more powerful will the ritual and the baby be,” Molly said sadly. “I guess he sensed your potential, then, Hermione. Maybe it’s even greater than we thought, for him to single you out like this.” 

The kitchen was quiet for a while, and Hermione stared down at her folded hands. She was clutching so hard, her knuckles were turning white and bloodless. Sighing, she made herself let go of her death-grip, rationalizing that what she felt like couldn’t be true: that if she didn’t hold herself together quite literally, she might dissolve into screaming panic. With forced relaxation, she leaned back into the straight-backed chair. 

Then Arthur nodded. “It’ll be interesting to see if You-Know-Who takes any interest in the baby.” 

“He better not!” Hermione barked, her hands almost flapping in the air by sheer panic and indignation. 

“Of course not,” Molly said hurriedly, soothingly, shooting an angry glance at her husband, like he had done something stupid. “He doesn’t strike me like a man who’d take any notice of a child.” 

Arhur looked sheepish, muttering: “Sorry about upsetting you, Hermione. It wasn’t my intention…” Then he brightened. “And your strength, has anything happened with your magic?” 

“I’m much stronger,” she muttered, fingers finding purchase on the edge of the table, squeezing it like she was about to fall off her chair. 

He nodded. “I’ve heard that it sometimes wanes in time. At other times, it doesn’t. I don’t know much about the whys and hows, so you’ll have to see.” 

“How much do you think your strength increased, Hermione?” asked Molly. 

She grunted. “A lot. I can do things wandlessly and wordlessly that I never even would have attempted before. It’s like … the magic is there for me to tap into, so easily, like it’s just floating around for me to pluck out of the air.” 

“Not good,” Molly said worriedly, “not good. That means that You-Know-Who will have increased his strength too, and he definitely doesn’t need to become stronger.”

Harry paled. “Do you think he’ll go after Hermione to… do it again next year? Will it even work again with the same two people, or…?” 

“I don’t know, but I do know he’ll want to keep his strength,” Molly said morosely. “Hermione, you are in great danger, as he might want to renew it, like Harry said.” 

“Pah,” she spat. “Not bloody likely, is it? By next year, I’ll have a three month old baby! He’ll go after another virgin, don’t you think, to max out the ritual power!” 

“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “To be honest, the fact that he must have impregnated you intentionally is very... baffling. I’m almost _positive_ he hasn’t shown any inclination for producing an heir before, nor has he shown any particular interest in the fairer sex, so to speak. To my knowledge, that goes for both the time that has passed since his resurrection, and before, back in the seventies. I can understand his motivation for this ritual in terms of the power you both received, but it must also have been a conscious decision on his part to aim for a pregnancy. Unless he has decided he needs a whole brood for his empire, I doubt he’d go about making a new witch pregnant every year. We must take good care of you, because we cannot rule out the possibility that he’ll go after you.” 

Molly sighed. “In addition, you should know that magical pregnancies makes for a bond between the parents, or rather the father and the baby.” 

“What?” she shrieked, heart suddenly hammering in her throat again. “Will he know where I am and what I do?”

“Sort of,” Molly hastened to explain, “just your general vicinity, if he actively listens to the bond. He won’t be able to pinpoint your position. But he can monitor the baby’s growth, and your health. He can’t read your thoughts or anything.” 

“Oh.” That calmed her down a little, but then she frowned. “Can I monitor him too?” 

Harry’s eyes widened, and Ron’s head snapped up. 

“Well, yes, in a way, as in you’ll know his whereabouts too, and if he’s healthy,” Molly said, “but please, don’t do anything rash.” 

Hermione felt her eyes narrowing, and her smile most certainly wasn’t pretty and nice, as she said: “Show me how to use this bond, please.” 

  
  


Xxxx

His Death Eaters were sitting at the long table at Malfoy Manor, each and everyone of them looking as uncomfortable as they should feel. _Rightly so, because they hadn’t managed to keep a secure perimeter ward at the ritual, letting Granger slip in. Merlin knew, the whole Order could have been present at the ritual for all his people had known. Not that he had minded Granger’s presence at all, but still, the security lapse was beyond the pale. They knew they had mucked up, this time, but not what they had done wrong. Well, they were in for a surprise._

Voldemort resisted the urge to grin. They were all present, grim looks in place, and he couldn’t help relish their uneasiness. _The emotion came over so strong, he could practically taste it: tart bitterness, a tang of sour sweat, and undercurrents of dark fear._

Some of them, though, were too afraid for their own good. Lucius was clutching the table, hands almost shaking, and his pretty little wife was deathly pale, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but here. Voldemort could understand that, given the … experimental … spellcasting he had worked on her yesterday. He wondered if she was able to speak yet, or if she was still reduced to harsh croaks and sighs. At least, he could see her hands were still twitching. 

Severus was looking stoic as always, but he knew, the man was seething on the inside, emotions too stormy to contain behind his impressive Occlumency shields. Feeling slightly amused, Voldemort decided to begin with Severus’ announcement. 

“Dear friends,” he hissed, making several of them start. “Tonight, we celebrate my stalwart lieutenant. He’s become _engaged_ to Avery’s pretty daughter. Say, Severus, was it the red hair that did it for you, _again_?” 

The man flinched, his sallow face flushing an unhealthy red, and Avery clenched his hands, looking angrier than he had the right to, given his daughter’s scandalous behaviour. Avery’s thoughts stood out in his routine Legilimency surface scan of any thoughts in the room: _My daughter should have waited for a husband, not carrying on like that at Equinox, and with a Half-blood at that. Though_ , _given Severus’ position, it wasn’t all bad, but still..._

“Thank you, my Lord,” the Headmaster intoned in his deep voice. “You are right as always, I am partial - _too partial_ \- to red hair.” 

Voldemort smiled lazily. _Severus was so grave, so correct, so stern and seemingly emotionless, it was almost amazing that he had kept up that fascination with a dead witch for so many years. It was sad, though, that this had given Dumbledore so much leverage against his lieutenant. Still, nothing was more valuable than a double spy, as long as one were aware of how the loyalties really ran. Severus would never disappoint him, because he’d opt to keep his cover, no matter what, as Dumbledore had put the man in an impossible situation. Voldemort could only nod to the dead Headmaster, his former enemy, thanking him for the gift of excellent service._

“When will you be wed, Severus? I’m sure, Narcissa will enjoy handling your wedding, as befit the station of the Hogwarts Headmaster. Not to mention the celebration of the birth.” 

The witch smiled sickly, her eyes staring at nothing, and Severus tried to hide a sigh. _Voldemort knew very well that Severus would much prefer a quiet ceremony, but that wouldn’t do. The man needed to accept that the masses needed a show, or as the old Roman wizards would put it, a ‘circus’. Oh, well._

“Still, my dear friends, we have further cause for celebration tonight.” He snapped his fingers, and a small army of House-elves turned up, flutes of champagne on small trays being passed among his people. 

_The confusion and surprise on their faces was a sight to behold, as they had believed they were in for a scolding, maybe even punishment._ Voldemort finally grinned, as he saluted them: “I’m going to be a father, too.” 

All attention snapped to him, his Death Eaters looking incredulous, but they all raised their glasses at him, no one daring to pop the question - that is, until Bella found her voice: 

“My Lord,” she choked out, “Pray, tell us, when did this happen? Was it at the Equinox? _Who_ is the mother?” 

“Ah, Bella, Bella, my dear,” he said, voice soothing, allaying the fears of his trusted second lieutenant, getting a tremulous smile from her, before he pounced in for the kill: “It’s no one but Hermione Granger, Potter’s Mudblood.” 

Gasps, choked exclamations and muted expressions of outrage and disbelief filled the room, the emotions roiling, making a heady spike of intensity, connecting to that part of his brain that made Legilimency so easy, so smooth. 

“You, my dear vigilant Death Eaters, let our enemy into our camp. She infiltrated us at our celebration, without any of you being the wiser. You failed in your vigilance. But I found her, I used her, and now, she carries my heir.” 

“My Lord!” Bellatrix voice was anguished. “Was she Glamoured, did she trick you, that filthy little Mudblood? Trick you into doing … _that_ … with _her_?” 

“Not at all, you should know better, Bella,” he said silkily. “I knew her, all along, but she has been blessed with power. Unclean and filthy as her blood is, she brought enough power into our union to be a worthy vessel for my heir.” 

His followers were shocked, some looking like their world had fallen apart by the knowledge that their Lord had not only copulated with a Mudblood, but claimed that she was a strong witch too. It went against _everything_ they believed. 

He knew, this might take a while for his followers to accept. The ideology he had built on the foundations of the old Pure-blood culture might work wonderfully for his followers, but it wasn’t by far working out in terms of establishing a secure position and taking over the world. _He needed to change things to achieve what he wanted, or else his rule would be fraught by flares of resistance and uprisings. Changing strategies to reach a goal was only sound reasoning, and he’d have to tweak things, making changes, getting them truly under his thumb. And young Hermione Jean Granger and her pregnancy would fit right into those changes. But at first, it needed to be gradual to get his Death Eaters onboard. Though…. He favoured shock therapy most of all._

He smiled grimly at his people. “You also let her escape. Now you must find her, bring her to me. We’ll hunt her in every way possible, but she must not be harmed. Do better, my friends, than you have before. Now you know what is at stake: My heir.” 

As the shuffling feet and the murmurs of assent filled the room, he thought: _Let’s rattle the spirit of that little trio, before I make her an offer._

Xxxx

The proclamation came as an unpleasant surprise, the very same evening, just as they were getting ready to leave the Burrow. A large, tawny barn owl swooped into the kitchen with a screech, before dropping a special evening edition of the Prophet on the floor. 

The owl flapped outside, hooting angrily, as they all stared at the frontpage splayed out on the tiles. 

Molly gasped, and vaguely, Hermione heard the boys exclaim something. But it was hard to hear over the rushing sound in her ears. 

In bold letters across an image of her, the message was “ **Join the Hunt for Hermione Granger.** ” 

Swallowing, she read on:

_Today the Dark Lord issued a statement: There’s a reward of a hundred thousand Galleons for anyone who brings Hermione Jean Granger to me, unharmed._

_Read more about the statement and Hermione Granger on pages two, three, four, five and six._

“Merlin.” Ron’s voice was a whisper. “A hundred thousand Galleons - that’s a fortune! He must really want you.” 

“It’s an obscene amount of money,” Arthur chimed in, looking very serious. “This will be a real temptation. You must be very careful with who you see and trust from now on.” 

Molly stared wistfully at the paper, and suddenly, Hermione felt afraid.

_Hundred thousand Galleons. It was a fortune, something that would allow anyone to live a very comfortable life, something that might sway the loyalties of almost anyone. Could she trust the Weasleys? Could she trust Ron? What about that mediwitch?_

In that moment, Ron said resignedly: “Money is nothing against Hermione’s safety for us, but this raises the stakes for almost anyone else.” 

“True,” Harry said. “You should see about that mediwitch, or else you might get in trouble, if she spills the beans on Hermione being here,” he continued, looking at Molly and Arthur. 

Both of them nodded. “I will,” Arthur said softly, smiling at Hermione, “even if I have to do that Obliviate myself.” 

Molly patted his back, giving him a small smile. “Merlin help the poor woman if you do that, Arthur. You’d better leave that to me. You couldn’t Obliviate anyone if your very life was at stake.” 

A strong surge of relief went through Hermione. _They were on her side. She had friends, and the Dark Lord wouldn’t get to her, no matter what he threw after her._

Still, looking at that paper made her feel a nagging doubt. _Hundred thousand Galleons…_

Xxxx

They hid deep in the woods, not venturing out anywhere. Food was now sorted out by drop points, where Molly left baskets of great food, Nourishment Potions for Hermione as well as Pregnancy Potions designed to stave of nausea and stomach problems. 

She took the potions, but unfailingly, she hesitated before drinking them. _By drinking this, she was effectively strengthening Voldemort’s child inside herself. That thought was almost enough to make her sick._

The time she spent on tracking Voldemort through the parental bond was completely wasted. The bond felt like a tingling in the back of her head, like a spidery thread connecting her with a pulse somewhere else. There was a sense of distance and direction to it, though she couldn’t pin down his exact location. The pulse told her, however, that Voldemort was at full strength. 

After a few days, she sighed: “He doesn’t move around much, does he? He’s almost always somewhere in Wiltshire, barring one quick jaunt to maybe London, and he’s healthy, disgustingly so.” 

“Still, we’d know if he were getting closer, trying to hunt you himself, wouldn’t we?” Harry said helpfully, nibbling happily on an apple. A month ago, they’d have eaten the core too, not letting any food go to waste, but now, Harry threw away the core into the bushes, scaring a squirrel that chittered angrily at them. 

“Ho, I thought I heard something!” a voice yelled in the distance, and the trio froze. 

“Snatchers,” Ron whispered, retrieving his wand from his pocket. 

“Sit still,” Hermione said urgently, “be quiet, if we’re lucky, the wards should repel them.” 

Silently, they watched as a group of scruffy-looking wizards bumbled through the woods, not one of them noticing that they all seemed to avoid a clearing almost thirty feet across. One of them, a big, burly fellow, brushed by the perimeter ward, stopping for a moment with a confused expression on his face. He was so close, they could smell the sour sweat from his body. Then he shook himself, and moved on. 

As the snatchers moved on, Hermione expelled a big breath, shoulders sinking down. _This was not the moment when she’d have to fight her way to freedom. That moment would come, she was sure, but not today._

“That was close,” Ron muttered. 

Harry said thoughtfully: “I suppose, a strong Death Eater, or even someone with half a brain, would notice that there was something odd about this clearing. Maybe we should avoid places like this, and instead make our camp inside the woods, away from paths and obvious camp sites.” 

Still, only an hour later, they had to pack up their tent in a hurry, Apparating in the very moment they lifted their wards, to the shouts and screams of a very surprised group of snatchers. 

Within the week, they felt hounded and disturbed by the hunt, breaking camp five or six times a day due to groups of wizards and witches coming too close. They even had to flee in the nights. On one occasion, there was even a full Death Eater in mask and garb herding a group of well-dressed young witches and wizards, wands at the ready, the Death Eater sending probing spells forward, and encouraging the younger ones to mimic his actions. 

“He’s training them,” Harry said bitterly. “They’re Apprentices, sort of. Imagine that, young people willingly joining HIM?” 

The words he didn’t say hung unspoken: “ _Why didn’t they join ME?”_

Ron and Hermione shared a glance. _Because it seems like he’s winning, not us,_ Ron’s eyes seemed to say, but she couldn’t - _wouldn’t_ \- acknowledge that. Sighing deeply, Ron just patted Harry’s shoulder. 

Later the same evening, they had set up camp deep inside the Sherwood forest, having just picked up a food basket at one of the assigned meeting points. Hermione never joined in gathering the baskets, because they were afraid that Voldemort might pick up her returning to an area, thereby compromising their food sources. 

Sighing, Harry said: “This is getting ridiculous. This hunt … this is nothing like what we experienced before. Either he can pinpoint your position better than you can place him, Hermione, or else he’d throwing all he’s got into this hunt.” 

Ron shuddered. “Both options are rather frightening, Harry. If he wants Hermione this badly…” 

She grimaced. “He can fuck off, because he’s not going to find me.” 

Ron nodded fervently, but Harry said morosely: “Still, we’re doing nothing except moving around these days.” 

“That’s probably what he wants,” Hermione said grimly. “I mean, crushing our morale. Making me give up. But I won’t!” 

Ron nodded, picking up the Prophet from the food basket. Molly thoughtfully included editions of the paper in the baskets, to let them know what was going on in the wizarding world, though they knew it was all Voldemort’s propaganda. 

“Look, he made a surprise visit to Hogwarts!” Ron exclaimed, but Harry just swivelled his head, staring at her, green eyes accusing. 

“What? I’m not monitoring him at all hours,” she snapped irritably. “Basically, he sits in Wiltshire all the time. It’s not that interesting.” 

Harry shrugged, sighing: “ I wish that damned bond had been more useful.” 

“If it was, he’d have found us ages ago,” Ron interjected. 

All three heads bent over the paper, they read about how the Dark Lord had come unannounced to Hogwarts, shocking staff and students alike, before he had disappeared on an unknown errand within the castle. 

“He has retrieved a Horcrux,” Harry guessed. “We suspected there might be one hidden there, but now, as he’s on to us, it makes sense that he would gather them close to him, instead. That will make our hunt almost impossible. Damn!” 

He banged his fist into the dry log he was sitting on, making it crack slightly. Harry winced, feeling up his bruised hand, looking more like a petulant school boy than the saviour of the wizarding world. 

“How do we get to them, then?” Ron asked, but then that part of his brain that made him a chess master whirred into action, and he turned slowly to Hermione. 

“What?” she asked again, but there was something calculating in Ron’s eyes that made shivers race down her spine. 

Harry was still pouting, gingerly patting his hand, but Hermione shook her head. _Surely, Ron wasn’t thinking what she suspected. Surely not._

“You can get to him,” Ron said, his voice low and rough, like he hated what he was suggesting. 

“We don’t know that,” she said sharply. “We have no idea what he wants with me.” 

“Wait, what are you saying?” Harry said, looking confused. 

“He wants Hermione,” Ron said patiently, like he was explaining something to a daft child. “He has the Horcruxes close to him. Hermione can get to him, while we cannot.” 

“Oh.” Harry’s eyes grew as big as saucers, before he shook his head decisively. “No. No. We cannot subject her to that, Ron, it’s not possible.” 

There was a rushing sound in her ears again. _Ron’s logic was impeccable. They would never get to Voldemort’s Horcruxes if he kept them himself, unless they got close to him. Harry couldn’t, for obvious reasons, and Ron would be killed on the spot. There was only her._

For a moment, it felt like she was looking into an abyss of darkness, panic and despair, like there were a hundred Dementors waiting to feed on her soul, but she swallowed it down. With a very small voice, she said: “I’ll do it. There’s no other way. No one else can do this, if we want to finish him off.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, we're going to get back on the smut train again. But first, we need a backstory...


	4. Underexposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But then it dawned on her. Everyone in the Wizarding world, except Harry, Ron and Ron’s parents, would believe this piece of shit, cloaked in truth. They would believe she was a witch who’d lay down for Voldemort voluntarily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this twisted tale! I'm so happy there are other sick people out there, like me, who actually enjoys reading a Volmione.

“How can I manipulate him into not finding out what I’m doing?” she asked, her voice remarkably even. _Not like she was planning to go into the dragon’s den, not knowing if the dragon would roast her, fuck her or just keep her prisoner._

“You don’t have to,” Ron insisted. “You hide in plain sight. He doesn’t have to believe you’re sympathetic to his cause, and he already knows about our Horcrux hunt. We should set up a meeting with him, finding out what he wants at first, and then we’ll work it out from there.” 

“Who says he’ll tell the truth?” she snorted. 

“He probably won’t,” Harry said, “but maybe the bond can give you an inkling of whether or not he’s truthful?” 

“How so?” 

“There are things like lie detectors, aren’t there? Monitoring heart rate, breathing and stuff like that, just like what you can do with that bond. If his heart rate increases, he might be lying.” 

She stared dumbly at Harry. “You really think so? He’s been lying to people all his life. Does he still have those reflexes?” 

“On second thought, maybe not,” Harry mumbled, cheeks flushing, while Ron looked curiously at them. 

“Lie ‘tectors? Is that a Muggle thing? It would be much more practical to demand he took Veritaserum.” 

“Yeah, right,” she and Harry both snorted. “Like he’d accept any conditions at all.” 

“Oh,” Ron said sagely. “He must accept some conditions, or you’ll not meet him. We can’t just send you off alone to Malfoy Manor, or wherever he’s hiding without any conditions at all. However, we need to plan this carefully.” 

“And,” Harry said, looking thoughtfully at her, “you’ll need a safe place to stay later in the pregnancy. It would be difficult for the Order to provide a safe place, especially when he has an idea of where you are. He could end up posting a hundred Death Eaters around a safe house, making sure that no one can get in or out, making food delivery become impossible.” 

She snorted. “You think he’ll keep me safe, not a prisoner?” 

“No, you know I don’t believe that,” Harry said slowly, earnestly. “But he might keep you safe until you’ve given birth.” 

“And kill me the moment the baby’s out,” she spat. 

“Probably not,” Ron muttered thoughtfully. “He lost his own mother at birth, didn’t he?” 

“You think he’ll grow sentimental?” she said incredulously. 

“No,” Ron’s ears were becoming red. “No, I mean… Many people believe that the mother’s milk helps the baby to develop their magic safely too, not only their bodies. So, he might not take any chances. Chances are, he won’t kill you right away. Besides, Harry’s right. You need a safe place to stay, somewhere he won’t hunt you. The only solution might be to let him provide a place for you.” 

Xxxx

_She was so warm, her skin moist, and the wizard behind her ran his hands across her naked hips, pulling her roughly into his hard body. His skin was smooth to the touch, and shivers of pleasure raced down her spine. She pressed her arse into him, wanting to get closer to that intoxicating smell - a clean male scent made up by old, dusty parchment, something spicy, almost like leather from book bindings, plus a faint whiff of wood smoke._

_Gasping, she felt something big and hard butt into the small of her back, rock-hard, but still silky soft. As she grinded her hips against him, the man behind groaned deeply, and the sound made a sudden flare of heat shooting through her belly. His hands trailing upwards to grab her breasts, squeezing them, thumbs worrying her stiff nipples. The palms that hefted her breasts were large, calloused, but his fingers were long and slender. A hot mouth caressed that sensitive skin just beneath her ear, and she moaned, writhing in his grip. His head moved forward against her jawline, but still she couldn’t see his face, just a flash of his eyes, and…_

“Wake up, we need to go, now!” 

Ron’s voice was insistent, pulling her out of her dream. “Snatchers, a large group just arrived, Hermione. Wake up, we must leave now, at once!” 

She groaned, blinking against the small _Lumos_ bobbing by her cot. _What a dream…_ Her knickers felt sticky and moist, like she was soaking wet. With a sudden blush to her face, she realized that she probably _was_. _Oh Merlin, did Ron and Harry hear me moan in my sleep?_

Ron’s face was pinched with the lack of sleep and worry, but still, he couldn’t hide the amused expression in his eyes. He gave her a small, wicked grin as she jumped out of her cot, her wand at the ready as she did her part of the drill. _Because it had become a drill now, each of them having assigned tasks for packing up in a hurry._

Later, when they had settled in another place, she couldn’t find her sleep again. Harry did, though, snoring gently after only minutes. 

She sat on her cot, legs crossed, as her heart rate slowed from frantic escape-mode to normal. 

Ron had pulled out his chess set to stay awake, as it was still his watch, playing a game with himself. Casually, he said to her: “I never knew girls had dreams like that too.” 

Her blush was instant. “Now you know,” she retorted snappily. 

Ron just grinned. “I know both Harry and me have tried to be quiet about these things, but somehow, it never occurred to me that you were doing it too.” 

“You weren’t as quiet as you probably thought,” she quipped, making Ron redden too. They fell silent, watching the lone candle they burnt, and Hermione thought about her dream, and the way her dream lover had caressed her. Nausea hit her like a hammer, when she suddenly realized that in the moment before waking, she had seen the eyes of her faceless lover. _And the colour of his eyes had been red._

Xxxx

The next food food basket held both food, four days worth of the Prophet and a note. 

It was yesterday’s frontpage that drew their eyes first: 

**“The Dark Lord Tells All: Seductress Hermione Granger Ran Off With My Child!”**

Her first word was simply: “Bugger!” 

But then it dawned on her. Everyone in the Wizarding world, except Harry, Ron and Ron’s parents, would believe this piece of shit, cloaked in truth. They would believe she was a witch who’d lay down for Voldemort voluntarily. No matter the Dark Lord’s reputation, people also tended to look askance at a woman who took off with a child without even informing the father. 

They read on, her hands shaking with fury: 

_\- She was such a smart and powerful girl, I couldn’t help being drawn in by her, the Dark Lord says resignedly. - And pretty too, though Merlin knows that I’m not easily swayed by such things. I thought I finally had found a soulmate, a witch to share my lonely life with, but she was just after one thing. The moment she got what she wanted, she disappeared on me, and I’ve been trying to find her ever since. What she wanted? It was a child, by me. I just hope she won’t harm the baby._

_To the readers of the Prophet, this may not come as a surprise. Hermione Granger has long been known as a witch who ruthlessly goes after famous and powerful wizards for her own gain. Read about her earlier conquests on pages four to ten - with a full spread of pictures! There’s no wonder that she finally set her sights on the most powerful of them all. But how did a Muggleborn witch manage to catch the Dark Lord’s eyes? Turn to page two, where the heartbroken wizard tells all about their encounters._

“He’s laying it on pretty thick,” Ron commented, his face stony, while Harry looked as incredulous as Hermione felt. 

“You can say that again,” Hermione said weakly, sitting back, hands clutching her thighs. “I mean, he has slandered my name so effectively, to everyone. When all this is over, I have to migrate to another country. Or else I’ll be known as the witch who fucking _seduced_ Lord Vo..! 

“Don’t say his name!” Harry and Ron both shouted, and she clapped her hands to her mouth. _Gods, this was bad enough, if she weren’t to give him an exact pointer to her location as well by breaking the Taboo on his name!_

“Read the note,” Harry said slowly. “We need to know what Molly and Arthur are doing. What the Order is doing, with this mess...” 

They opened the small scroll, seeing Arthur’s spiky letters, like he had written this in a hurry: 

_Dear Hermione!_

_I know, The Prophet will be a terrible shock for you. Rest assured, the Order are now informed of the truth of the matter. We regret that we didn’t take the time to ask for your consent in telling them the awful truth, but the situation was getting out of control - quickly. Our fellow members were very worried: about you, and for Harry (and Ron). They’ve calmed down considerably by now, and they all wanted to show you their heartfelt sympathy for your plight. McGonagall says: “Poor lass! No one should have to go through that.” She also says you are the bravest Gryffindor she’d ever known, for living through that particular hell and still standing strong._   
_  
Though make no mistake, this is going to be rough in public. Maybe even rougher than we can imagine. To be frank, I’m terrified on your behalf. _

_I have one other message for you, one I’m not at all happy to transmit. Kingsley says to ask you if you’ve considered meeting with You-Know-Who, to find out what it is he wants from you. He also says that he knows asking this is inhumanly cruel and cynical, but you could be a valuable spy for the Order - if You-Know-Who wants you close to him. Well, the idea is there, but Molly asks me to say that you mustn’t even contemplate this. I agree. This would be incredibly dangerous, and it’s not something we should ask of a young girl in a vulnerable position. But it’s in the open, now. Please,_ **_don’t _ ** _consider this._

_Take care of yourself, first and foremost._

_Love, Arthur._

Harry sighed. “Hermione, Arthur is writing what I’m thinking. You can’t do that. We can’t trust him, no matter what. You mean too much for me - for us. Whatever it is he wants, he’s certainly raising the stakes by talking about you like this. Arthur is right, this is incredibly dangerous.”

Xxxx

“It’s all according to plan, my Lord,” Antonin said, his burly fingers seeming too large for the slender stem of the wineglass in his hands. 

“Good work,” he replied between mouthfuls of the delicious meal of mushroom risotto, greens and a tender duck breast, the crisp skin lightly scorched just like he wanted it. _He had to give the Malfoys that, even though they were a bunch of useless cowards if he had seen anyone, they had excellent House-elves. This was a very decent meal._

Leaning back, taking a sip of the rich white bourgogne in his crystal glass, Voldemort nodded approvingly at Antonin. _He was one of his first followers, back from his gang at Hogwarts, and the very first Knight of Walpurgis. Though brutal, Antonin had a certain efficiency to him, that his other Death Eaters would be hard pressed to match. And he wasn’t as … prejudiced … as some of the others._

“Like you ordered, we make sure they have to move at least five times a day, sometimes more. They do have very adequate wards, mostly thanks to the girl, I believe. Still, they should feel sufficiently harassed by now. At times, we get a visual in that moment when they lift their wards to Apparate away. It’s obvious that they’re anxious and stressed. Everyone has kept themselves in check, and no one has fired _anything_ at the girl, just like you ordered.” 

“How are the prospects handling themselves?”

“Very good. Several have improved their tracking and tracing abilities during these days. They are, however, confused.” 

The words were hanging unsaid in the room: _Like the rest of us._

Antonin looked defiantly at him, chewing his duck slowly and methodically. 

The candles on the table burnt straight and true, giving a warm light to the smaller Malfoy dining room. The table could easily seat twenty people, but still, the room didn’t feel empty with only the two of them. _Tonight, the family was having dinner in the kitchen. With the House-elves._

Voldemort nodded. It was about time to test his new policy. His operation had never been a team effort, quite the opposite, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of his means of persuasion, ranging from charm, terror and to general politicking. _It was all about what worked - or what he felt like at the moment. And he would need to get his followers onboard for this, using whatever measures he would need._

Antonin was a Half-blood himself, and perhaps more … open … to changes in that respect than people like the Lestranges, Averys or Malfoys. Amongst his Death Eaters, only three of them were considered as the real Inner Circle at the moment. Bella was an excellent enforcer, but too unstable for anything resembling strategy. Severus was his master of strategy, but he had his limits, balking at the oddest things, like killing Muggles openly. Antonin, on the other hand, was both smart and loyal. _Useful._

Taking a swig of his glass, he savoured the wine for a moment, before clearing his throat. 

“Antonin,” he began. “You, of all people, know what this is all about.” 

His longtime follower nodded curtly. “Power,” he said simply. “Absolute power.” 

“Correct. The way things are going, I can’t see the general public accepting our doctrine. It will take years and years of suppression, and a needless waste of power and resources from our side. Therefore, I’ve decided to make some changes. We will be seen to accept Muggleborns, dissolving the Mudblood Relocation camp and returning them to society. I will publicly see the error of my ways, with Granger as the mother of my child bolstering the image. Oppressing the Muggle world will go on as before, because frankly, I don’t think there’s a lot of wizards who really cares about Muggles. This way, we make a temporary compromise to appease and sway the public.” 

Those ice-blue eyes stared at him, assessing his message. _That was one of the things he liked about Antonin, he always took his time thinking things through. He didn’t just agree because his Lord told him what to think, instead, he formed an opinion. That made him a much better follower than those who blindly, mindlessly agreed with everything_. 

Then Antonin made a curt nod. “It’s not going to go over well with everyone, my Lord, but you already know that. However, I’m firmly behind you, because this is the most cost-effective solution to our problem. Snape and the Notts would also support this, as well as Jugson and the Selwyns. There are several others too, who won’t care as long as their Muggle sports can continue.” 

“Good to know you agree,” Voldemort said silkily, putting down his knife and fork, before blotting his mouth with the thick damask napkin. 

Antonin shrugged. “You do this to attain our greater goal, so I can’t see why not. We need to do something about the Lestranges, in particular, I believe. Especially …” he hesitated, suddenly looking uncommonly nervous - “if you actually mean to keep the girl.” 

“Oh, but I do,” Voldemort said, a small smile playing on his lips. _The girl… Already, she was a hazy bundle of bristling spikes in the back of his mind, anxiety and anger flowing almost constantly through her. With some work, he was able to follow the connection, pinpointing her location quite accurately. As for her health… She was improving, eating better, he rather thought, but her mood swings was as messy as Potter’s ever had been._

The plates were cleared from the table, and the pudding appeared. _Ah, chocolate mousse, with a lovely Italian sweet red to go with._ He picked up his spoon, tasting it, and the rich, heavy chocolate rolled over his tongue. _Voldemort wondered if other people enjoyed food as much as he did. After all those years inhabiting the bodies of snakes, it felt like he just couldn’t get enough of great cuisine. That was, he’d never_ **_tell_ ** _anyone exactly that, because it wasn’t aligned with his carefully crafted image._

“Bella…” Antonin said, looking serious. “She might do something, overstep herself…” 

“I know,” Voldemort simply said, twisting his spoon into the pudding, scoping up the last of the dark, delicious mousse. “I’ll deal with her. Granger will, however unwilling, become a major player, and I won’t allow Bella to interfere.” 

The dessert melted in his mouth. _Granger had no idea what she was up against._

Xxxx

The letter she conveniently dropped on the ground the next time they had to flee was carefully crafted, stating her terms. 

_Lord Voldemort._

_If you wish to meet with me, please release all prisoners affiliated with the Order of the Phoenix from Azkaban immediately. When this fact has been confirmed by sources I trust, I will meet with you - alone - at the place we met last, in three days. We’ll meet at noon, and I demand safe passage. I will hear you out, and then I’ll leave - unescorted and alone. You will not follow me._

_Hermione Jean Granger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, they'll meet again in the next chapter. *grins*


	5. Underhanded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But first, he was about to wring her surrender out of her body, forcing her reluctant arousal. Oh, how he had looked forward to that particular act, feeling that wonderfully conflicted release again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You remember the tags, right? I can't stress this enough: Voldemort isn't nice. This isn't a redemption fic. ;-) 
> 
> Chapter is NSFW.

Without any preamble, he said: “I trust you’ve been enjoying your increased power these last few weeks.” 

The feeling of her heart hammering in her chest was uncomfortable, to say the least. The Avebury ring was devoid of other wizards and witches, just like she had requested, and the fresh spring grass was rustling gently in the cold breeze. A few sheep grazed in the distance, moving slowly among the great, hulking standing stones. Everything was so quiet, so quaint, so peaceful. _Nothing at all like the last time she was here, with a thousand chanting dark wizards and witches, gathered around the roaring bonfires._ Still, the wizard in front of her dominated the scene, making the pleasant scenery in broad daylight into a horrid nightmare. 

In the sunlit glare of noon, his features looked even harsher than in the flickering lights of the Equinox fires. He was much too pale, skin slightly mottled, and the slits of his nose vibrating, like he was _smelling_ her. His stance was proud, though, like he expected the world to revolve around him, his expression haughty and disdainful. 

She suddenly realized, her head didn’t even reach his shoulders. He was very tall, probably close to two metres if she had to make a guess, towering over her like the true menace he was. His body was thin, wiry, and he wore a long sweeping black robe. _Silk,_ she noted, _just like at Equinox._ Power was oozing from him, just like last time, like his magical ability was too great to be contained in such a destroyed vessel as his body. _Like the power was seeking her, closing in on her, mesmerizing her, like a snake about to attack._

With a strangled gasp, she broke free from the spell _or whatever_ he had tried to work on her. _She had come prepared for anything._ **_Anything_ ** _at all, but this was insidious - an attack sneaking up on her._

Shaking herself, she focused her thoughts on the task at hand. _Most of all, she needed to save the world, help Harry killing the man in front of her, then broker a deal on her personal safety. Breaking camp five times a day was already harsh - would be harsher - too harsh - later in the pregnancy. She didn’t need Molly to tell her that, she could feel it in her bones, the tiredness of early pregnancy seeping through her body at all hours._

“I have,” she said curtly. 

He just nodded, red eyes gazing intently at her. “So have I. Did you know, the ritual must be renewed, or else the power will fade?” 

“No.” Her answer was sullen. _Why hadn’t Arthur and Molly been able to tell her that? They merely said it might fade, or maybe not. And … how was this bond to be renewed? There had been mentions of maybe repeating the ritual next year, but no … renewal._

She glared suspiciously at him, but he was giving her a wicked once-over, answering the question in her mind. 

“By fucking, of course. To keep up our power gain, I need to fuck you regularly.” 

“Absolutely not!” she said, half frightened, but most of all outraged. _He might be a dark wizard, but really - was he that depraved that he’d suggest something like this? How could he ever believe that she’d be willing to do that?!_

She took a step back, glowering at him. _Merlin, he was intimidating, but she was not about showing him that. He was such a monster, a creep!_

“Why not?” he asked, cocking his head at her, looking at her with curiosity. “As I remember it, you enjoyed it a great deal.” 

Scowling, she opened her mouth to retort, but then he changed tack, gliding a step forward, his voice taking on a lecturing note: “The Equinox ritual can be done in several ways. Most just meet up, fuck, and receives a small power boost. The way we observed the rite - the _proper_ way - gained us so much more. You, a very powerful witch, came to my fires, you ate the food I provided, you gave me your virginity as my people chanted, and I gave you my seed, sealing the ritual. In return, our power was heightened and strengthened. Like spring itself, the power is cyclical, waxing, waning eternally, always returning as long as you don’t break the cycle.” 

Suddenly, she discovered she had listened attentively, her mind falling into learning mode so easily, it was almost laughable. Her brow furrowed with annoyance at herself. _Trust herself to listen to anyone - even HIM - trying to teach her things she didn’t know._

He continued, a small smirk at his mouth, like he knew what she was thinking: 

“We both gained so much power, and _you_ will never be able to achieve the same effect in a new ritual, never having that source of power in your grasp again with your virginity gone. I could, if only I found another virgin witch with the power to match your strength, though _that’s_ highly unlikely.” 

Hermione blinked, feeling oddly pleased. _She had potential enough that even Voldemort thought he’d never meet another witch as powerful as her?_ A small vicious voice inside her head tittered: _Take that, you damned Pure-blood fanatics, Draco Malfoy and all of Slytherin! Even your own Lord thinks I’m better than you._

Voldemort twirled his pale wand between his fingers, before he shrugged: “Then again, I have no wish to attain a brood of children by different witches. If you and I maintain contact, our increased power will renew itself, or else it will peter out slowly. We must keep the cycle alive. I’d say, we both gain from continuing our liaison. Don’t you think?”

She almost nodded, because it was so logical, and she had enjoyed the increased power, feeling her magic as so much _more_ than before. _But … agreeing too routinely have sex with that monster…?! What bargain could be enough to give such a promise? To do something that would efficiently destroy herself, not to mention her reputation even more?_

Scowling at him, she said: “You forgot one thing. The _baby_ you’ve saddled me with. The child I cannot seem to get rid of.” 

“Get rid of?” He looked genuinely confused, cocking his head as he looked at her. 

“Yes!” she growled. “I tried to see if I could get rid of it, but it’s not possible. What am I going to do with _your_ child?” 

Those red eyes flashed menacingly, and he surged forward, gripping her shoulders, leaning down with his fearsome face almost touching hers. “You will not take any such steps,” he hissed. His magic lashed out, curling about her own, like a snake constricting around it’s victim, squeezing, pressuring her until her breath came like short, gasping pants. 

Terrified, she stared up into his face. “I … I couldn’t…” she stuttered, “it wasn’t possible.” Then that part of her that had landed her in Gryffindor made itself known, and she straightened herself, pushing his hands off her and giving him a shove with her own power. To her displeasure, it didn’t work, he didn’t even stagger, but his fingers gripped her shoulders harder. 

A surprised huff left her, and she continued angrily: “But I would have, I would, if I could. Why the hell did you impregnate me, of all things? I don’t want to carry your child! And what I want to know, is what you’re planning for the child. Are you going to use it for some obscure ritual, or are you planning to raise the child as your heir? Or maybe you _don’t fucking care_!” 

Suddenly, he grinned, showing off those awful teeth, making the dentists’ daughter in her shudder. “You’re certainly feisty,” he muttered, looking faintly amused. Then his face closed up, becoming a blank mask, and he said: “I’ll raise the child as my heir. You will get a choice. Either, I take you with me right now, lock you up in the Malfoy dungeon, using you as I please, depriving you of the baby as soon as it’s born, or ... you do as I say.” 

Inside her, there was an awful, tugging feeling in her heart. _She wanted to get rid of the foetus, but having the baby taken from her at birth? It felt wrong, it felt like such a thing was an abomination._ But she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of thinking like that. 

Narrowing her eyes, she spat: “And what is it exactly that you want? You promised me safe passage!” 

“I lied,” he said with a nasty smirk. “If you agree, you’ll get good terms, as befitting the mother of my heir. I’ll install you at Hogwarts, you’ll have the freedom of the grounds and castle, being the Headmaster’s revered guest. No one will harm you. In return, I’ll have access to you as often as I deem necessary. You will not go against me in public. If you cannot find it in you to support me, you’ll stay silent and passive.” 

Gaping, she said incredulously: “Why would I agree to something like that? There’s precious little in it for me.” 

“Except for _not_ being my prisoner,” he remarked, looking amused again. 

“No.” she replied, furrowing her brows. “I want more in return.” 

“So now you’re haggling?” he asked silkily. 

“I want you to let all Muggleborns back into society,” she snarled. “Getting back full rights as witches and wizards. I want an amnesty for each and every single member of the Order of the Phoenix. I want our government returned to its normal operating mode.” 

He tapped his lips with a long finger, watching her carefully. “I agree to dispose of the Relocation Camp and letting the Muggleborn’s back into society.” 

Her jaw fell open, comically so, and she struggled to overcome her shock. _Never in a lifetime had she believed he’d agree to that._

Voldemort smirked in the face of her surprise. “I’ll even throw in an offer to teach you magic, if you support me in public. Things that no one else can show you. Knowledge so obscure, buried deep in the distant past that almost no one remembers, theories that make you understand magic itself, enabling you to create new, wondrous spells. I’ll show you incantations that can shape the world, making you a master of nature and people.” 

Hermione blinked. _That part of her that craved knowledge, that loved to bury herself in books and theories, roared an enthusiastically YES, but she clamped down on it. No knowledge was worth her supporting him._

“What about the Order!” she snapped. 

“As for the Order… I’ll grant an amnesty for any member that cease resistance, except for Harry Potter. He’ll be given over to my jurisdiction.” 

“Never!” she said hotly, “Harry will be safe!” 

“What about leaving Potter for later, and make a deal on the rest? You’d save hundreds of Muggleborns this way, and your fellows in the Order will be safe as long as they behave,” he suggested. 

“I want elections and a free government,” she said stubbornly. 

“That won’t happen,” he shrugged. 

“So,” she said quietly. “You have a hard limit on the government, I have a hard limit on Harry.” 

“Exactly, _little witch_ ,” he said, his tone making a mockery out of what could have been an endearment, if the situation had been different. 

The abyss loomed before her again, dark, foreboding, her toes curling over the edge. _By saying yes, she had an opportunity to find those Horcruxes, spying on their enemy, staying close to Voldemort. If they didn’t, Harry had no chance of winning. She was their only hope. And, she needed to be safe. Could she do this?_

For a moment, she tethered on the edge, seeing Harry’s grave face in front of her. She knew, he’d never want her to do this for him, never in a million years. _But how could she not, knowing that their whole world was at stake, and she was the only one who could make a difference, who could help Harry win? Was her happiness and self-respect more important than the Greater Good? Of freeing hundreds, maybe thousands of Muggleborns from prison?_

Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the deep. “We’ll leave that for later,” she said, not meeting those flaming red eyes. “As long as no one in the Order is prosecuted for helping, hiding and guiding Harry. As long as the Muggleborns are returned to freedom.” 

Slowly, he nodded. “Deal. We’ll seal it now, here.” 

Xxxx

 _He had to give it to her, the little minx._ She was devious, cunning even, setting her own terms, but in the end, she played right in his hands. Not one of her demands was unexpected, and she was visibly thrown by him giving in to free the Mudbloods. She had been sorely tempted by him teaching her, and he couldn’t help approving her thirst for knowledge. Amused, he considered actually following through on that more consistently than he had planned for. _She might be willing to give more in return for teaching. Maybe a few lessons in Necromancy…_

But first, he was about to wring her surrender out of her body, forcing her reluctant arousal. _Oh, how he had looked forward to that particular act, feeling that wonderfully conflicted release again._

She was staring at him, her chest moving rapidly. 

“Seal?” she whispered, taking a small step back. 

“Seal,” he confirmed, taking a long step forward, bringing him close to her, so close he was looming over her. 

Her eyes were big, terrified, and it shot right to his cock. He was hardening, relishing her fear, his cock twitching as it grew rigid. His nostril slits took in the scent of her: the bitter tang of terror and a whiff of nervous sweat overlaying something sweet and feminine, like scent of fresh moonflowers, a touch of ink - the rather expensive kind he favoured, and… parchment. _Her smell was pleasant,_ he concluded, _especially combined with the smell of fear._

He glanced down at her chest, seeing that delicious swell of firm breasts heaving. They weren’t large, but he remembered that they were perfectly shaped, big enough to bounce as he fucked her. 

“No,” she said breathlessly, eyes looking _oh so_ scared, “no, I must go back first, I need to tell...” 

“Seal the deal,” he said firmly, grabbing her shoulders. A shudder ran through her, and he dipped into her mind, sliding in easily between the cracks in her Occlumency shields. 

Inside, she was gibbering in panic, her thoughts fluttering this way and that. _“He CANNOT do that - not again! He hurt me so much!” a part of her wailed like a lost child._

_“I’ll kill him!” another part snarled ferociously, while yet another said silkily: “Yes, I’ll take him down, make him turn into nothing, but first, I must endure this - this is the price for victory. I can do this.”_

_A very small, insecure voice whispered: “What if it’s true, what if it wasn’t the spell, what if I end up enjoying myself? What if I AM a whore for his power, what if I fall?”_

_The silky, calculating voice in her head said slyly: “Oh, you know the poem, girl, what if you fly? Is it so bad to enjoy this thing, while you set him up to fall, while you ensure his ruin?”_

He pulled out of her mind, his breathing heavy. _That cacophony of conflict in her was … arousing, just like last time. The girl had enjoyed it, and now, she was afraid she’d enjoy him again. And she would._

The best part was her self-doubt. Her knowledge of sexual magic was non-existent, thinking it was just the physical act to it. And that, he knew, was a part of the conflict inside her. She was afraid, scared that her body would betray her, humiliated by her arousal, believing herself to be a sick and depraved witch. That upheaval, that personal hell of hers, trickled into his mind, tasting like the richest wine. He enjoyed that ruthless part of her that wanted to kill him too, because while she might struggle and fight in his grasp, she’d never win. _He_ **_would_ ** _have her surrender, he’d wring it from her without her knowing what actually happened. Afterwards, she’d be devastated. And he would feel so good._

Hoarsely, he muttered: “Turn around.” 

“No,” she said again, then louder: “No!” 

“You will,” he almost snarled, his cock throbbing for her body, for that tight little hole to sheath him. Gripping her shoulders hard, he spun her around, pulling her to his chest, making her give a frightened, little scream. Conjuring the stone altar again, feeling her pulse pound through her veins, he muttered darkly: “No one will hear us. No one will come for you, little witch.” He pressed into her back, as he pushed her forward with his body, the few steps an awkward walk for both of them, until her hips hit the stone altar. 

With one hand, he bent her forward, his grip on her neck ensuring that her cheek lay flat against the gleaming, black rock. His other hand grabbed her jeans, yanking them down over her hips and arse, the sound of the zipper being torn apart loud in his ears. 

She squirmed, trying to get away, chanting against him with a frenzied whimper: “ _Petrificus Totalis! Petrificus Totalis,_ I said! _Reducto! Bombarda! Stupefy!_ Why doesn’t it work, why!?” 

He batted her spells away with a hastily erected shield, while ripping her knickers off her. His own robe whispered apart, freeing his aching cock, and he grunted as he pushed it against her bare skin. 

She yelled, writing in his grip: “You sick bastard, I was going to come back, you don’t have to do this now, I’ll come back, I promise!” 

The turmoil in her mind was roiling, like boiling water, and he grinned. Gathering his power, he prodded at that part of her that had responded so beautifully to him last time, letting his magic butt into hers, just like his cock was now pressing in between her clenched thighs. 

A small gasp came from her, as his magic slithered around hers, caressing, stroking her power, stoking her fire, making her shiver. _Her magic was so responsive, so willing to accommodate his power, while her mind screamed at him._ Then, she became pliant, powerless, as her magic succumbed to his, letting him dominate her, and her body _… oh, it responded too, a wave of arousal shooting through her._ A broken, unwilling moan came from her lips: “No, no, not again...” 

“Yes, again,” he hissed, thrusting into her very being with his power in the very moment his cock speared her opening. _She had become wet, deliciously so, and her magic was warm, soft and stretching around his, making his body and mind tingle and throb. Merlin, not many witches could take his magic, it was rare, had been really, all his life. Some had even died._

Voldemort grunted as his cock bottomed into her, feeling that tight, wet sheath slide around him so exquisitely as he slid back out, before ramming himself into her again. 

Xxxx

She fought to stay sane. _It was whatever spells he had cast, not him, just her being overpowered by magic, not by his body. His power stroked hers, and it was so good, her own magic curling around his like a cat stretching in a spot of sunlight, wanting more, craving the snake that slithered over her, into her. The haze of magic felt so good, just like being on the cusp of an orgasm or the moment before solving a riddle, revealing great secrets, and she shivered in anticipation, wanting more, more, more._

From afar, she felt her body slam into the hard stone, bruising her hips, but her body was not obeying her, not at all, because it was moaning, rutting back at him, a broken voice that _surely_ couldn’t belong to her croaked: “Touch me!” 

The wizard behind her grunted, a long-fingered hand moving to her front, rubbing her mound, parting her slit, finding that spot which made every sensation heighten, intensifying the pleasure rushing through her. She was drowning in him, his magic, shaking with the effort of containing that vast power of his inside her own, stretching to fit him, her pleasure bordering on pain, just like her body felt as she was filled by that large cock, moving roughly in and out of her, the ridges of the thick stem creating a delicious friction to make her breath short and stuttering. _A white light was rising, like she was staring directly into the sun, and her body tingled all over, clenching around that rigid length inside her, before exploding into a thousand stars, like all the secrets of the universe were spilled into her._

The man behind her shuddered too, continuing his punishing pace as he groaned, before hot seed poured into her. 

Ashamed and mortified, she closed her eyes, tears trickling out. _What had happened? It couldn’t be her. It most certainly couldn’t be… She had to be insane. She had just come on Lord Voldemort’s cock._

_Again._

He pulled out, leaving a rush of wetness spilling out of her, and she thought he might have staggered as he took a step back, one hand shooting forward to grip the stone altar, his breath loud in her ears. As he righted himself and moved away, she whispered: “What did you do to me?” 


	6. Undercutting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was quiet for a moment, before Harry said, his voice oddly high and agitated: “Not even one of you question the fact that Hermione is going to DO this. Have you no compassion at all?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting! <3

Nauseous and ashamed, she Apparated back to the meeting point, where Harry, Ron, Molly, Arthur, Professor McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt waited. 

Hermione staggered as her feet landed in the clearing. Hunching over, she vomited both from the uncomfortable squeeze of Apparition, but also from her own sick shame and humiliation. _She was ...awful. Not once, but twice had she orgasmed with Lord Voldemort, the wizard who had killed scores of people, who tried to destroy the world. This was the final proof, she was a slut, a whore, who’d spread her legs and enjoying it with_ ** _anyone_** _, if she enjoyed it with him._ _She deserved whatever came her way, she was the worst witch ever to grace the earth. And now, she had literally sold herself to him, though it was for the Greater Good._

“How are you,” Harry asked, running towards her, gathering her hair for her as her stomach heaved, his calloused hands warm and dry against her sweat-soaked neck. 

“How did it go,” whispered Ron, stroking her back lightly, like she’d fly away, lift off the ground, at a moment’s notice, instead of being shackled by awful guilt. 

“Not well, not well at all,” she gulped, snot and tears running down her face, as she sank to her knees. In the distance, McGonagall and the Weasleys stood, the Professor holding a hand over her mouth, like she was terrified. 

Breathing deeply, Hermione tried to gather her thoughts. She’d tell them what they needed to know, about the deal. Not anything more. _She couldn’t tell them what a terrible person she was. They would surely hate her, look askance at her, never trusting her again, because this… This clearly wasn’t the ritual, just her body reacting to … his. And that made her into something worthy of their hatred._

Swallowing the sour taste of bile, she silently Scourgified her mouth, the power coming so easily to her, it was almost laughable, before she Vanished her vomit from the ground. Breathing heavily through her nose, she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. _She was doing something good too. This was for the Greater Good. No matter her own sickening deficiencies, she’d help bring Voldemort down._

Clutching Ron’s hand for support, she rose to her feet, walking slowly towards the others. 

Molly whispered, trepidation in her voice: “Are you alright, Hermione? Did he … did he harm you?” 

“I’m not alright,” she replied bitterly, “and I won’t be for a long time. Here’s what’s going to happen.” 

As she told them the extent of her deal, the four adults gaped at her, blinking. Both of the boys were pale, Ron looking determined, like he was steeling himself, while desperation was pouring through Harry’s green eyes. 

“You certainly got a much better deal than anyone could expect,” Kingsley said, his voice oddly rusty. 

“Yes,” Ron chimed in. “You will be in an excellent strategic position to ...find things out.” _She knew, he meant both the hunt for the Horcruxes and inside information in general, though neither the Weasleys, McGonagall nor Shacklebolt had any idea about their quest._

But then he shook his head, the too-long red hair swaying gently about his shoulders.. “But _why?_ Why would he give up so much? I mean, he’s dismantling his whole ideology by letting the Muggleborns back into society. Why is this so important to him? I’m afraid we don’t see the whole picture here. There must be something we’re missing.” 

Kingsley nodded thoughtfully, but from the helpless look in his eyes, it was obvious that he had no clue either. 

Arthur looked sick. “Merlin, Hermione, you’re saving so many lives with this, all the Muggleborns, no matter his intentions… but this … this … No one intended for you to ...” 

Her Professor sniffled softly into a tartan handkerchief, before her usually brisk voice garbled: “Dear Miss Granger, you’re showing the utmost personal bravery I’ve ever seen. I can’t deny the Order needs this reprieve, because we are outnumbered and hard pressed, and we could use some time to regroup, to make plans, to take care of those who were released from Azkaban. This is a great sacrifice, and you must know we are all very thankful.” 

Molly said nothing, just pulling Hermione into a big hug, and tiredly, she put her head down on Molly’s shoulder. _But she knew, she didn’t deserve this kind of sympathy. She was a vile, disgusting person. If they ever found out, there would be no more hugs and comfort, just … despisal._

It was quiet for a moment, before Harry said, his voice oddly high and agitated: “Not even one of you question the fact that Hermione’s going to DO this. Have you no compassion at all? Can’t you see what this is doing to her? She’s destroying her life for this, first by getting pregnant, and now she’s going to be his … his …his … _lover…_ for an indefinite amount of time?” 

Hermione knew what Harry had been about to say, it was as clear as day: _His whore._ Pulling back from Molly’s arms, she instead hugged herself. _That was what she was. Voldemort’s whore. No matter what she found out and how she would assist in bringing him down, it wouldn’t change the fact that she was to be his whore._

Harry stared accusingly at the others, and their faces was strangely blank, like they were walling off their emotions. 

Then Kingley groaned, dragging his fingers across his face, like he wanted to hide. “We know, Harry. We know. There’s nothing we’d rather do than spare Hermione this. Yet, the advantage of having someone this close to him, of freeing all those people from the camp. He wouldn’t be the first wizard to let something slip in a heated moment, or afterwards…” 

“Exactly,” Ron said softly, but his face was resolute, eyes flashing a warning to Harry: “Only Hermione can find out what we so _desperately_ need to know.” 

McGonagall cringed, but muttered to herself: “That’s true. If you’re going to be at Hogwarts, at least you’ll get help easily enough if he hurts you.” 

Molly gasped, and Arthur winced. “Surely he won’t harm you,” Molly mumbled, reaching out a hand to pat Hermione’s arm to comfort her. 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. _Comfort would be hard to come by in her new life. She’d better not get used to it._ “I hope not,” she whispered. “But I’m sure he’ll try.” 

Xxxx

Separating her things from the boy’s took very little time. She left them with everything except her clothes and personal belongings, though it was hard to let go of her books, even her beloved ' _Hogwarts: A History'._ Hermione figured, they’d need it more than her. When she needed books, she would have all the resources at the Hogwarts library at her disposal. 

But as she worked, Harry stood beside her, constantly muttering: “It’s not right, Hermione, this is wrong. We shouldn’t be sacrificing you like this. I mean, think about what you have to do? He’s surely not going to be there all the time, but you have to stay there as Snape’s guest. McGonagall might say she’ll look after you, but she’ll need to keep her distance. And those Death Eater teachers… No, Hermione, I don’t want you to do this, I can’t handle this, I mean, you don’t deserve this, you’re so much better…” 

Finally, she snapped: “Gods, Harry, I wish I didn’t have to. But think about all those people suffering in those camps, Muggleborns being treated like… vermin, or killed outright. This _one_ sacrifice - _me_ _-_ helps save them all, and I can’t just _not_ do that. And then there’s the things we need to find out.” 

Giving Harry a quick hug, his face so anguished it made her _hurt_ inside, she sighed deeply. “Harry, I really appreciate you standing up for me like this. I really do. But … I’ll be relatively safe at Hogwarts. I can’t imagine he’ll let his Death Eaters harm me, not as long as I’m pregnant, at least.” 

“Do you really think a man like him will let something slip involuntarily? Especially something important?” Harry said slowly. 

She gave him a quick grimace. “No, not really. I mean, he is what he is, isn’t he? But I can observe him, listen to Snape and those Death Eaters…” 

Harry looked incredulous. “Snape? He’s the worst, how can you find out anything from him?” 

She shrugged. “We did find out a lot by spying on him earlier, didn’t we?” 

“Maybe you should take my Cloak.” 

“No! What if someone - HE - finds it? Besides, you need it more than me,” she insisted vehemently. “You might need to sneak up on him later on.” 

Harry stilled. A bitter look - _hurt, pain and incomprehensible guilt_ \- flashed over his face, making him look older and grim. “Oh, Hermione. I don’t want you to do this... Ok, but promise me, you’ll run if you can’t handle this. Keep us posted on those coins. Be safe, Hermione, be safe as you can.” 

Xxxx

Outside the great gates of Hogwarts, a tall, shadowy shape waited for her, black cloak flapping in the gusts of wind. For a moment, she thought it was Voldemort himself, and her heart sped up, fear coursing through her. Upon realizing it was the Headmaster, the great traitor, Severus Snape himself, she felt oddly relieved, a small grin breaking out on her face. 

He looked much the same as before, though maybe more tired, older even, like he hadn’t been sleeping properly during the last year. His complexion was still sallow, and his oily black hair longer than before. 

Snape peered down at her with curiosity, one eyebrow arching up. Quickly, she schooled her face into an impassive mask. _In all probability, people rarely grinned when seeing him. Still, he was a familiar presence, and he felt far, far safer than his dark master._

“Miss Granger,” he said with a curt, perfunctory nod. “Our Lord has commanded me to make you comfortable here at Hogwarts. Rest assured, you’ll have freedom of the castle, having your own suite of chambers, and you will be able to spend your time as you please.” 

She made a small grimace. _Our Lord… Like they both thought of Voldemort as their Lord. She was far from sharing that sentiment with the Headmaster._

“And,” he continued, looking at her with something odd in his eyes - _maybe compassion, even_ \- “I hear that congratulations is in order.” 

“Thank you,” she said, her voice very small. _Maybe he did feel sorry for her. He had tried to scare her off from the Equinox ritual, hadn’t he?_ This was also the first time anyone had congratulated her on the pregnancy. _It felt strange, on some level very wrong, and in another way right. Because she was indeed pregnant. She had to face that fact now. Own it, even._

He turned, pointing his wand at the gates, swinging them open. As they entered, he remarked in passing: “The Dark Lord has ordered me to add him to the wards. I believe he’ll visit more often than he has had cause for previously.” 

She stiffened, and knew she couldn’t hide her shudder from the slanting glance he gave her. 

Calmly, like knowing the Dark Lord invading his school could be an everyday occurrence, he continued walking, long legs striding up to the castle, and she almost had to run to keep up with him. 

In silence, she followed him as he stalked through the corridors, and the few students they met shied away from them, but not before glancing in wide-eyed surprise at her. 

“Here.” He stopped in front of a large, oaken door, in the same corridor as the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s turret. 

“No portrait to guard the doors?” she asked, as he handed her a large, old-fashioned key. 

“Hmph,” he snorted. “Not one of them willing to admit him on a regular basis. It’s just a door, and you can add whatever wards you’d like. Just remember … to add him to those wards. He won’t like to be held outside. _You_ won’t like it either when he breaks through.” 

She grimaced again. “I will,” she said as calmly as she could. 

“Settle in, and then join me for tea. You know the way.” He made a jerky nod in the direction of the gargoyle. 

Xxxx

Her chambers were a lot more luxurious than the Hogwarts dorm rooms. She had a large, rotund sitting room, with a grand fireplace and tall, mullioned windows, giving a beautiful view over the grounds. In the distance, Hogsmeade looked tiny, and the big trees in the Forbidden Forests swayed in a light breeze. 

The best part was all the bookshelves, covering the stone walls from floor to roof. She snorted to herself, as she saw one of them were filled with the seventh year curriculum for Hogwarts. _That had to be McGonagall’s doing, of maybe even Snape. At least, it was placed there by someone who resented the fact that she had left without completing her education._ Otherwise, the dark mahogany shelves were bare. Hermione wondered if she would be allowed trips to Hogsmeade, or maybe even Diagon Alley to buy books. Then her brows furrowed. _Better not ask Voldemort. He might demand … services ... in return. Maybe McGonagall could help her buying books._

In front of the big fireplace, there were two comfortable chairs for reading, with a small, ornately carved table between them. _Like she’d have any visitors who’d read with her. Would Voldemort do that? Hardly,_ she snorted to herself. _Or maybe he would, at that. She had no idea what the man did in his spare time. Hopefully, he wasn’t about to spend it with her._

The bedroom was overly large, with a gigantic four-poster bed. The size of it made her shudder. _Would it be even more of a violation to be taken in her own bed, than somewhere neutral? Somehow, she supposed she’d feel that way, but she knew, she had no say in where it happened. As long as it didn’t happen in public again._

Folding and placing her clothing was quickly done, and she wandered into the bathroom with her toiletries. Stopping in the door, she gasped. _It was magnificent._

Dark grey stones, warm to the touch, tiles covered the floor, and a vast, sunken bathtub, much like in the prefects bathroom filled up most of the space. In the roof, softly glowing orbs lit the room, and there was a tall mirror covering the entire wall opposite the door. The sink and the toilet itself was blindly white, and the cupboards and shelves were a rich dark brown wood. In a corner, there was also a shower. Simply put, it was the best bathroom Hermione had ever seen. 

Yes, these rooms was more than adequate, if the price hadn’t been so steep. _Letting the most evil wizard in Britain have her as often as he liked…_

Xxxx

“I hope you found everything to your satisfaction?” 

Severus Snape poured her tea, and she watched him, bemused. _Never in her wildest dreams had she ever thought she’d have tea with her meanest teacher, and him being polite about it too._

“Absolutely,” she said. “The bathroom especially was marvellous.” 

He smirked. “It’s standard for teachers. You are, in fact, occupying the old rooms reserved for the teacher in History of Magic. As Binn’s doesn’t need a set of rooms, it has been empty for the last fifty years or so.” 

“Was he willing to leave his rooms?” she asked, her eager curiosity flaring to life. _Would a ghost give up his dwelling, just like that? Wouldn't it be some kind of residual attachment?_

Snape shrugged. “When I had his belongings moved, he followed them. He’s quite docile, as you know. Cream or sugar?” 

“No thanks, over the last months I’ve gotten used to drinking my tea black,” she said. 

“Oh.” There was a short silence, as she nipped her tea. It was delicious, clearly from a superior blend, and brewed just perfectly. Then again, she thought Snape would be that kind of wizard that would care for such things, just as he demanded the very best potion ingredients and an exacting standard in brewing too. 

As he sipped his own tea, she saw what clearly had to be an engagement ring on his hand. It was large and ostentatious, the style screaming that the one who had picked it out hadn’t bothered much with what she thought Snape would want to wear. 

Nodding to it, she asked lightly, just to keep the conversation going: “Are you getting married?” 

To her surprise, he cast a disgruntled glance at the ring, and said curtly: “Yes. All too soon.” 

Blinking, she wondered why he bothered to get married, if he didn’t want it. Surely he, a high-ranking Death Eater, would be able to easily get out any marriage offers he got. _Unless… someone more powerful had made him accept._

Suddenly she felt a surge of sympathy for Snape, even though he was the vilest Death Eater in Britain, having killed Dumbledore. _Being forced into relationships by Voldemort was maybe something they had in common, then._

“You don’t want to?” she asked softly. 

Arching an eyebrow, he looked down into his tea again, like he’d find answers there. “Suffice to say, she’s expecting a baby at the same time as you,” he said acidly, ”and her family was _quite_ insistent on her doing the right thing. As was our Lord.” 

“Oh.” Her eyes widened, and she remembered that red-headed young witch from the Equinox, the one who had pulled Snape away, just as he had discovered Hermione, motioning for her to run. 

_That witch had been pretty, but young, surely only a few years older than Hermione._

“Was she a student of yours?” she asked, and he nodded, looking slightly disgusted.

Taking another sip of his tea, he said with another small shrug: “Every witch under the age of thirty-five has been a student of mine. Eventually, I can’t be that picky.” 

Her eyes widened, realizing that as he started teaching in his early twenties, his oldest students must have been a mere three years younger than himself. _Literally, almost anyone who was a possible romantic partner, would have experienced him in the classroom. And that had to be a major turn-off for the witches,_ she almost snickered to herself, _if they weren’t the kind of people getting turned on by being lectured, humiliated and shamed in public._

Clearing his throat, glaring at her, like he knew she was laughing on the inside, he said: “Perenella is 21.” 

Without thinking, she replied: “That’s quite some age difference.” 

He barked, eyes flashing with anger: “You’re one to talk!” 

Blinking, she realized he meant Voldemort and herself. _How old was Voldemort? He was born in 1926… that would make him seventy-two, no wait, he was born on New Year’s Eve, making him seventy-one at the moment… A gross total of fifty-three years older than herself. Somehow, she had never thought about his age before. He was more like a force of nature, a being, not a man with something as prosaic as an age to him. But he was a man, an old man, at that. An old man, who were set on using her body to keep his power expanded._

“Shit, you’re right,” she whispered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” 

He looked curiously at her. “Surely you had realized before now that the Dark Lord was far older than yourself?” 

“I never thought about it,” she said truthfully. Slowly, she added: “I don’t really think of him as a man.”

Snape snorted. “He’d be pleased to know that,” he said wryly. 

“He doesn’t want to be human?” she guessed, and her former teacher nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s why it seems so unlikely for him to all of a sudden beget an heir…” he mused. “We’re all surprised by this turn of events.” 

He was watching her, dark eyes inscrutable, but she read the question there nonetheless. _Even his lieutenant didn’t know, and he wondered if his Lord had told her about his reasons._

She definitely didn’t want to admit to her ignorance on this, instead, she merely smiled to give an impression that she knew more than she had let on. _She needed any lever she could get with these people. As they talked, she wondered why her stern, grumpy Professor seemed so chatty. Was it because he was forced to entertain her? Or had he maybe missed someone other than Death Eaters to talk too?_

Xxxx

His Death Eaters were restless. Or rather, _some_ of them were. The room was dark, only a small fire flickering in his fireplace, keeping it nice and warm for Nagini, resting in front of the fire, her coils rustling as she slowly undulated, stretching herself. 

Bella was pacing his study, making little whimpering, angry sounds, while her husband and his brother stood still, both of them with clenched fists. Wisely, they left all the talking to Mortimer Avery, that silly fop. The Lestranges had to know he wouldn’t be pleased when they were questioning his decisions. 

“My Lord,” the tall aristocrat bleated, “but to reinstate the Mudbloods into society! What horrors of impurity might come out of such actions!” 

“Yes, yes,” Voldemort said impatiently. “They will pollute the bloodlines if allowed to run free. However, I have no plans for letting just _anybody_ procreate with a Mudblood. There will be rules, I assure you. What you should keep in mind - ” _he swept the room with an arch of his wand, sending a flick of the Stinging Hex to the four people present -_ “is that sometimes, you need to sacrifice a pawn to win the game.” 

“My Lord! This is not a pawn, it’s our _pride_!” Avery looked horrified, while the Lestranges muttered under their breath. 

Voldemort almost rolled his eyes, and Naginin sensed his irritation, raising her head, tongue flickering out to taste the mood. 

“Your pride?” His voice fell to a silky whisper, and Bella stopped her pacing abruptly, like she was an animal sensing danger. “ _Your pride,_ Mortimer? What about mine? I have conquered Britain, and now, I need to consolidate my rule. To do the things I want to do unhindered, I’ll make what resistance there still is seem obsolete and unfounded. When things are under control, we’ll strike. Mortimer, I’m _surprised_ you doubt your Lord.” 

Avery took a step back, hands shaking. His tanned face looked oddly pale under the thin veneer of sweat. _Terror. That’s what it was._

Voldemort grinned. Voice like a whip-crack, he commanded: “Kneel, all of you. Take what you deserve for your lack of trust.” 

His power rolled forth, ready to be shaped, expectant, waiting for his will. That lust for _harming_ someone spiked, curling up like a thorny dragon’s tail ready to lash out, his intention forming. His breath caught with pleasure, his mouth halfway open as the curse rolled silently through him, red licks of fire running rampant through his veins, a thrill racing up and down his spine, shooting thrills of ecstasy straight to his cock. Lightning shot out of his wand, the screaming started at once, and _oh,_ he wanted it to go on for a long, long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut in the next chapter. I promise!


	7. Underneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom, and she felt cold dread trickle down her spine. Not again. Not so soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort's new plan starts to unfold, and Hermione is dragged along with it - however unwilling and incredulous... 
> 
> Thanks for reading this twisted little tale!

“So,” he concluded, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the lapels of his silk robe, “she’s helped me see the error of my ways. Now, I’m trying to establish a real relationship with her, letting her go back to school.” Inwardly, he rolled his eyes with disgust at the things he spouted.

The reporter nodded, scribbling furiously with her quill, her eyes milky white, the iris rolled to the back of her head, expression completely dazed. _She was so far under the Imperius, never to know he had dictated the entire piece. It would be printed exactly like he wanted it to be. Like a soppy, filthy love story. Bah!_ Voldemort couldn’t avoid a small shiver, like he had dipped his hands into something filthy and vile-smelling. 

The research had been … _interesting…_ , as he had plunged into Narcissa’s mind to see what constituted a ‘romance’ in the eyes of most witches. Narcissa had been full of it, having read silly, unrealistic novels from a tender age. He had been fairly appalled at what he saw in her mind, but it would be easier to spin this development, if he told a story many would want to believe. _Not that he cared about such things as love or romance, or indeed had any use for it, but it was a solid strategic move. Still, it was disgusting… It was no wonder he despised people. They deserved to be used, manipulated and torn apart for their follies._

Severus had also been helpful. The poor man knew too much about what young people would believe, their dreams and fantasies, and he’d been valuable for testing the carefully researched script Voldemort had dictated to the Witch Weekly’s reporter. 

Voldemort had been amused when his lieutenant had asked - expression slightly horror struck but voice carefully modulated as always: “There’s no doubt in my mind that the readers of Witch Weekly will soak this up, hook, line and sinker. But really… Are you sure, my Lord? This is … unprecedented.” 

The article would be filled with pictures of the Granger girl, and those few shots that still existed from his youth. His current looks - well… Voldemort was rather pleased by how his new body had turned out, but he did realize, people weren’t likely to associate his new face with a love story _. That hadn’t been the purpose of this body either._

“You’ll finish writing up the story, and your editor will publish this in next week’s issue,” he ordered the journalist. 

“Yes, master,” the witch muttered, her jaw slack, and Voldemort swept out of the room. 

_He’d enjoy seeing Granger’s reaction to this. She would be appalled, to be sure, and probably uneasy and scared. He’d make sure to visit her, a few days after the issue had been published to pull her reactions from her mind. And, he’d have to send her a copy. He was quite sure, she wasn’t a subscriber to that filthy magazine. She seemed far too rational for such drivel._

Xxxx

To her surprise, Voldemort made good on his promise. The Muggleborns were released from the camps, and there was a ceasefire between the Order and the Death Eaters. No Muggleborns, however, showed up at Hogwarts to resume their schooling. She supposed, they were sensible enough to not trust their sudden freedom to last, or maybe it was too late in the year anyway. Voldemort had made a statement to the Prophet that all drops of magical blood were important, and that the process of “speed-integrating” the Muggleborns into wizarding society and the old values had been largely successful thanks to the camp they had been sequestered in. She snorted at the spin he set on what had been clearly nothing more than a war crime, but apparently, no one dared to oppose him in public by telling the truth. 

Her days were filled with solitary reading, taking walks alone and sleeping, and she spent hours in the giant bathtub. Attending the meals, however, felt like a disaster. As an honoured guest, she had to sit at the Head table, beside Snape and the Carrows, politely conversing with people she detested. McGonagall kept her distance with a disdainful frown, but at times, she winked at Hermione to let her know it was all an act. 

“You must be so proud,” Alecto Carrow purred, “to be the mother of Our Lord’s progeny.” The male twin grunted, busying himself with shovelling too-large bits of roast into his mouth.

“Yes,” she said, trying to hide her revulsion, “I’m honoured, for sure.” 

“To have _him_ pick _you_ out is indeed an honour,” the witch said, staring hungrily at her. 

Hermione realized, Alecto Carrow would have enjoyed that honour herself. In a sudden burst of anger, she clenched her hands underneath the table. _Why the fuck hadn’t Voldemort picked someone willing?_ But a niggling voice in the back of her head told her: _Her being unwilling was maybe what did it for him, sick bastard that he was._

With stiff movements, she lifted her goblet to her mouth, drinking deeply of her pumpkin juice. The teachers had wine, but she was restricted to pumpkin juice and water, because of her pregnancy. The House-elves seemed to go out of their way to ensure that she didn’t get even a _whiff_ of alcohol. 

The witch beside her smiled a little predatorily: “I’m surprised, though, that a young witch like you would enjoy _him_ so much. While we all love his power, young witches tend to favour looks above all else. You must be … special. We all saw how much you relished his touch at the Equinox, my dear.” 

Eyes blazing, she slammed her goblet down on the table, turning to the Carrow woman to tell her _exactly_ how she felt. 

The smooth baritone of the Headmaster cut off her impending rant: “Tell me Alecto, isn’t it so that your sixth year class just received the lowest marks in Hogwarts’ history? Could you please explain to me - and later you’ll be given the opportunity to explain this at length to our Lord - how in Merlin’s name you managed that?” 

xxxx

Tea with the Headmaster became a fixed thing, every Wednesday and Saturday at four o’clock. He was curiously polite, and she suspected, Voldemort had ordered him to keep an eye on her. _It felt strange, though, having Snape of all people acting like a normal person. He was supposed to be mean and snarky, and instead, he was almost nice, though a bit wary. She supposed, Snape would be unsure who’s side she was on - had she turned, or was she still with the Order?_

“Would it be possible for me to take my NEWTs?” she asked on her third visit. She har perused the stack of school books, and felt reasonably sure that she’d master the subjects. _Besides, getting her NEWTs would secure her future, in a world where Voldemort had lost. She could at least try, because there wasn’t as if she had so many other things to do while she was at Hogwarts._

“I can’t see why not,” he said, looking pensively at her. “You must know, the Dark Lord will expect you to be the absolute best in the year.” 

It felt like her eyebrows rose to her hairline. Incredulous, she croaked: “Wait, what? He will bother with _that_ too?” 

Snape shrugged. “He is a most exacting master. Our Lord has bound himself to you in public, and that means, everything you do - or _don’t_ \- will be seen as reflecting back to him. I can’t impress upon you enough that he has very high standards. If you do this, you must succeed.” 

Hermione blinked, feeling the tendrils of her usual exam panic start to curl inside her. _She had thought this to be a fun side project, something to take her mind of matters, something apart from her attempts at spying for the Order. This - bringing the full glare of Voldemort upon her academic results - would not be ‘fun’. Not at all._

The Headmaster looked at her again. “I suppose you’ve read everything, though.” 

“Yes,” she whispered, her mind still struggling with the fact that Voldemort would take an interest in her marks, of all things. “I haven’t been brewing much, though, it was a bit difficult on the run.” 

“Oh well,” Professor Snape said. Sighing deeply, he offered reluctantly: “I could give you a few lessons. To keep the Dark Lord happy, that is.”

Xxxx

The worst part of being at Hogwarts was the students. _Everyone,_ from Slytherins to Gryffindors, glared at her, but no one said a single word to her. _The rage she saw in their eyes told her enough, though_. To those who supported the Dark Lord, she was an anomaly, a festering sore on their Pure-blood pride, and to everyone else, her betrayal was inexplicable, twisted and sick. _At times, she wondered how many of them believed the lies Voldemort had spouted in the Prophet, of her actually seducing him. Surely they couldn’t think that, but no matter what, they all hated her._

Then it all changed, after that ludicrous Witch Weekly interview, halfway into her second week at Hogwarts. She had no idea why a post owl had dropped the issue on her head at breakfast, because she certainly wasn’t a subscriber. The owl had taken off without asking for money too, so it was obviously pre-paid. 

In her opinion, the article was a sick piece of bullshit where he professed his … _love_ … for her _,_ complete with loads of flattering pictures of her, and a few pictures of him from his youth. She had to admit, he looked more than handsome as a young man, but really, that was fifty years ago! _All in all, the article was possibly the biggest load of crap she’d ever seen._

People seemed to believe in it, though, at least according to those letters she had received herself, and what readers wrote to the Prophet in the following days. To her horror and surprise, many of the girls at school also seemed to find this incredibly romantic. Now, many girls looked at her with stars in their eyes, like she had given them hope for some kind of impossible, romantic love, seeing as even the Dark Lord could be swooning over a school girl. They were whispering about how _handsome_ he had been, talking about how _lucky_ she was _._

_If only they knew the truth_ , she snorted to herself: _Lies, manipulation and brutal violence. But why would Lord Voldemort of all people tell a story like that? It made her uneasy, even thinking about him in those terms, and she was quite sure, he had no love for anyone but himself. And her grand deal had bound her to go along with this idiocy: keeping mum if she couldn’t support him openly._

She communicated with Ron and Harry with her charmed coins, having improved the Protean Charm slightly by tinkering with it, to make it easier to write longer sentences. The boys constantly asked if she was alright, if Voldemort had visited, and every day, she had been relieved to reply _No visits yet._

On Friday night, she wasn’t as lucky. She was reading a very interesting book on ritual magic, trying to learn more about the thing that had befallen her, relaxing with a cup of tea after her evening bath. He must have entered her chambers stealthily, like a shadow, because she neither saw nor heard anything before a cold voice spoke, close to her ear: 

“You will not learn much from that author.” 

She screamed out loud by the shock. 

Against the shell of her ear, she could feel his lips curl into a half-smile, and he hissed: “I was planning on making you scream, but not so soon.” 

Her hackles raised, she put down her book on the table, before twisting her head to look at him. 

“Good evening,” she said carefully. Those red eyes studied her, taking in her face, before dipping down to her chest, before he abruptly rose to his full height. 

She paled, realizing that she had just given Voldemort an eyeful of her breasts. Her robe had slipped half open, and she was naked underneath after her evening bath.

He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom, and she felt cold dread trickle down her spine. _Not again. Not so soon. It had been close to five weeks between the first and the second time. Now, only two weeks had passed!_

Trying to distract him for as long as possible, she asked: “What’s wrong with the author? I thought he was well-respected.” 

“He had no knowledge of the magical theory behind the rituals,” he said dismissively. “He couldn’t explain why they worked, or what the components of the spell were.” 

“Oh,” she said. Studying him in return, she ventured another question: “How do you know what he knew or not?” 

He shrugged, that evil half-smile returning. “Because I questioned him. He was, after all, considered the authority on ritual magic. It turned out, he had only the barest minimum to offer. Such a waste of my time. His death offered some interesting opportunities to explore a few theories of mine, though.” 

Her eyes growing wide as saucers, he motioned again to the bedroom. Trying to stall another minute, she blurted out: “Would you be able to recommend a better book?” 

Voldemort snorted. “I’m not here to be your guide in the Hogwarts library, girl. Move!” 

Like a robot, she rose, moving stiffly towards the bedroom, and the tall, gaunt wizard glided behind her, barely making a sound but for the quiet rustle of his robe against the stone floor. 

He stopped in front of the bed. “Undress.” 

Timidly, she worked the buttons on her robe with shaking hands. In her head, a litany of thoughts and prayers went around and around. _Please Merlin, let it be fast. Please, I’d rather it hurt than being aroused again. Please, let me prove to myself that I’m not a sociopathic, twisted witch, getting turned on by Lord Voldemort._

He smirked knowingly, and she had the distinct feeling he _knew_ what she had been thinking. Mortified, she let her robe slip to the floor, pooling around her feet. 

The tall wizard stepped forward, letting his hands trail down her shoulders, the touch soft as feathers, though his hands were calloused, moving on to her arms, before dipping to her waist. It would have been pleasurable, if anyone else but him had touched her, and Hermione shivered a little in disgust and fear. 

Just like he sensed her conflict, he grabbed her, pulling her closer to him. _He smelled like he had been outside for quite some time, the fresh scent of wind, something salty like sea spray overlaying what she had come to recognize as his natural smell: Old parchment, spice and leather, plus a sharp smoky tang._

Her breath hitched, as she was pressed into his lean torso, her nose level with his chest. His hands ran down her back, cupping her arse, kneading her cheeks roughly. Against her sternum, she felt something stir, harden and grow. 

She swallowed nervously. Standing so close to him, she could feel his heartbeat pick up, as his thick cock became rigid. 

He cleared his throat, before pushing her against the bed, so hard that she fell backwards, her legs sprawled as she landed on her back. 

“Such a good little witch, spreading your legs wide for your Lord,” he said, his voice slithering over her like dry, cold scales. And then, it happened again, that inexplicable, _intolerable_ arousal. Her nipples hardened, her opening became wet, and her mouth opened into little pants, as she drowned in his power. 

Like a snake, it curled around her body, her mind, the very thing that made her into Hermione Granger, her own soul, and the power squeezed her, _hard_. Her own magic rose up in an answer to the challenge, writhing underneath his, trying to make room for herself in his deadly embrace. 

So preoccupied with her magic, she barely noticed that he wrestled his robes off, mounting the bed to straddle her hips. His large hands cupped her breasts, fondling them, twisting and teasing her nipples, making her hips squirm. _It felt so good, she could come from this alone, if only she had something on her clit, a finger, maybe._

The man on top of her grinned nastily, and one hand disappeared down to part her slit, pulling her lips apart, stroking that achingly hard little nub. 

“That’s it, come for Lord Voldemort,” he muttered, as his magic rose up like it was about to strike. Strike her it did, like lightning pleasure, and she _screamed_ as one long finger speared her, his thumb rubbing her clit. 

_Gods no, it was happening again, she was coming for him, so hard, his fingers rough on her sex, and she clenched, trembled around his fingers. Stars seemed to whizz past her eyes, her heart galloping at maximum speed, and her power - oh, her own, glorious power, swelled and grew into what felt like immensity._

Someone was screaming, and she was _shocked_ to find it was herself, her voice raspy and sore. The man above her growled, those delicious fingers leaving her dripping sex. He moved one of his legs aside, yanked her thighs apart, and settled between them. His rock hard cock slid in between her wet nether lips, all the way to the bottom of her, and she still felt it as quite a stretch, more than bordering on pain. 

She couldn’t help groaning: “You’re too big for me!” wincing by his size, but she quickly shut her mouth as she realized the wizard inside her took it as a compliment. 

Voldemort _smiled,_ rutting into her, no gentle start to ease her into their coupling, snarling to her: “You can take it, little witch, take my cock so beautifully in your tight, little hole.” He slammed himself into her, holding himself up above her, hips ramming into hers with loud smacks. The embarrassing wet, squelching sound as his cock slid in and out made her blush, trying to avoid his intense gaze. 

_Merlin, this is even more awful,_ she thought, _experiencing him taking me post-orgasm. Now, I’m … more lucid, being able to feel everything, my mind not so hazy. And sweet Morgana, Voldemort is fucking me, and my body is still betraying me._

Because it _was_ : little aftershocks were running through her belly, his cock making her tingle inside, aching with fullness, and … _no, she just couldn’t live with this, by rationally analyzing that it actually felt good to be speared on Lord Voldemort’s cock, even after her orgasm._ Her eyes brimmed with tears, and the man above her gasped, driving into her even harder, before his cock jerked, starting to pulse, and she could feel something hot shooting out from him, into her, as she felt power - _oh, so much power -_ rush into him too. 

He fell down on her, much heavier than he looked, and she felt almost crushed by his weight. For a moment, he rested his bald head against her shoulder, breathing heavily, before he rolled off her. As he did, she saw an almost dazed, power drunk expression in those glaringly red eyes. 

Xxxx

_Fucking her was absolutely delicious. So few witches had been able to take his magic like her, riding it, giving in to him, her magic sheathing his power as her body melted underneath him, and her reluctance made it all even sweeter, bending her under his will._

His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and sinking, as the afterglow slowly burned through his veins. Little sniffles and sobs came from the witch beside him. He half-turned his head to look at her. Clearly, she had gotten more food these last weeks, as she wasn’t as skinny as he had been on the Equinox. Her hips had filled out, her breasts looked bigger, and her face wasn’t as hollow and gaunt. _Well, he wouldn’t complain. She was pretty enough to satisfy his needs, both as a possible public figure and as his plaything_. His gaze fell to her still-trim waistline. _The child. It would be a symbol, a prop to shore up his new image as a leader all of the wizarding world could accept. Hopefully, it would turn out as a powerful wizard, someone who could make a useful follower at one point in the future, someone who could be trusted with overseeing the rule of a continent. If not… well._

Lifting his hand, he lazily cast the spell to get an impression on how strong the child’s magic was. Pulsing dots formed on her stomach, the appropriate green colour - _it would be a Slytherin, then -_ and in between, golden dots flashed and glittered. His breath of relief was miniscule. _It would be born with magic, not as a Squib. The risk had been minimal, given his strength and hers, but still._ Tweaking the spell, he tried to measure it’s magical potential. A wide grin formed as the golden lights rose into brilliance, momentarily blinding him. _Very powerful. Maybe even as powerful as himself._ That thought both pleased and worried him. _He’d have to make sure the child didn’t turn out as competition, vying for his power_. 

The little witch muttered angrily, squinting at him through her teary eyelashes: “I already did that, checking it. It’s a strong baby.” 

“Yes,” he replied, knowing that she was that kind of witch who would have read, tested and examined anything she got her hands on. _Just like him. Though, precious few people were like that. Amongst his people, only Severus had that kind of mindset._

Come to think of it, the sheets on her bed felt scratchy, and he wondered what in the blazes Severus had been thinking. _Surely, the man had noted Voldemort only wore silk? He’d to have words with him. He couldn’t expect Voldemort to lay on a bed with cotton sheets. There had to be some limits to that man’s coarse habits._

Rising from the bed, he watched the little witch. She had curled up, drawing her legs tightly up to her chest, a wet spot forming on the mattress underneath her bottom, and her tears flowed freely. _All in all, she made a pretty, enticing picture_. 

_“_ Until next time,” he muttered as he left, making a fresh stream of tears trickle down from her sooty eyelashes. 

After dressing quickly, he made the short walk to Severus’ chambers. Those rooms looked so very much different from what it had during the days of Dippet and Dumbledore: All frivolous ornaments stoved away, only books and dark, austere furniture left. The narrow wooden chairs in front of the mahogany desk were still beautifully made, with twisted legs and armrests, but they were decidedly uncomfortable. Voldemort flicked his wand, making himself a new chair. _A nice, comfortable one._

“Hello, Dumbledore,” he purred, grinning at the old fool’s portrait. It stared angrily at him, but kept its mouth shut. 

Nodding graciously at Severus, he allowed the man to rise from his kneeling position. _Severus had his priorities right, unlike some of his other followers. Immediately, after knowing his Lord was ascending the stairs, he had thrown himself on his knees, showing his submission._

“What brings you to Hogwarts, my Lord?” the man asked a little breathlessly. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky on his desk. 

“The little witch, as well as your own, fascinating company. Tell me Severus, how goes my new strategy?” 

The man blinked, his black eyes suddenly alert and curious. “Well, my Lord. From what I gather, almost everyone of my brethren sees your wisdom.” 

Voldemort snorted. “Almost.” 

“Yes, there’s that,” Severus replied with a small, knowing smile. “But I don’t have to tell your Lordship that. I gather, through my Ministry contacts and the School Board, that in general people truly believe your - if I may be as bold to say so - _redemption_ is genuine. They accept that you have seen the error of your ways through your … contact … with Miss Granger, and you now want to rule with justice and kindness.”

“Fools,” Voldemort commented with a wry smile, and Severus chuckled. 

“Indeed, my Lord.” Then he furrowed his dark brows. “If I may suggest, my Lord…” 

“You may.” 

“I would make some of the Muggleborns tell their story in public on how well they were treated in the Relocation Camp, and how much they learned from their experience.” 

“Hmmm. Will Obliviates and false memories be required to pull that off?” 

The tall, brooding man in front of him slumped slightly, his shoulders sagging, before he breathed: “I believe so, my Lord.” 

“I’ll see to it,” Voldemort nodded. _This was a task for those of his followers strong in Mind magic. Which meant Severus, Thelonius Nott, Bella, most certainly, and young Steven Jugson. Yes, that would be a good task force, for rounding up a few Mudbloods. Though, why not Obliviate the lot of them? He could join in himself, to do a Mass-Obliviation. That would be both demanding and an interesting piece of magic. First, he’d need to round them up again. Maybe stage some sort of public event, gathering everyone to celebrate their return to society.... Yes, a very good idea._

“May I?” Voldemort pointed at the bottle of Firewhisky, feeling extraordinarily pleased. 

“Oh, by all means, my Lord, I’ll get a tumbler for you…” 

As Severus rooted around in a cupboard behind his desk, Voldemort took a moment to reflect how good his body felt after sex. It certainly lifted his spirit, and his body felt relaxed, the afterglow still smoldering in his muscles and nerves. And the renewed power was pulsing, so ready to be used to overwhelm and destroy.... _Come to think of it, he had now fucked Granger three times. Previously, he had never returned to fuck a witch more than a handful of times, not even Bella. Thus, very soon, young Granger would surpass that number._

Voldemort almost laughed at that - _the very idea that he’d have a recurring partner -_ accepting a smoking tumbler from Severus. Swilling the golden-brown liquor, he was reminded of Granger’s tearfilled eyes. 

“To teary-eyed little witches,” he said, saluting Severus. 

The man’s eyes widened comically, before he shakingly returned the gesture. 

“Come now,” Voldemort said. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about making Avery’s daughter cry.” 

Severus’ true nature showed then, as his uneven teeth flashed into a gruesome grin. “Oh, I have, my Lord,” he said fervently. “I have.” 


	8. Undercurrent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "However, you can consider this a pleasure visit, not a renewal visit. I told you, I’d have access to you as often as I liked. I’ll see you next week. In the meantime, sweet dreams, little princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, this chapter is angsty, So far, it's the lowest point in the story. Don't worry, it'll be better, somehow (though: mind the story title...).

Breakfast Saturday morning was awkward. Everyone averted their eyes from her, and McGonagall looked so sick, Hermione wondered if she was truly ill. Students were whispering, sometimes sending covert glances in her direction. 

Hermione couldn’t help wonder: _Did they all know the Dark Lord had visited last night? Was that it? Did they all suspect what had happened to her yesterday?_

She tried to look normal, keeping her head high, but the odd mood was getting to her. Lifting her cup with a shaking hand, she almost sloshed out her tea, before her lips found the rim. The strong, black tea usually comforted her, but today, it only soured her stomach. 

Alecto Carrow slid into her seat next to Hermione, and thrilled with poisonous sweetness: “Good morning, Granger! I trust you slept well after last night?” 

Her red hair was as usual pulled harshly back in a bun, oddly reminiscent of McGonagall’s trademark hairdo, and her large, liquid eyes were filled with spite. 

Hermione just grunted, wondering what this was about. _Was the woman about to taunt her with her personal hell?_

“Though I dare say, you could use some honey in your tea,” the witch continued. 

“Why?” Narrowing her eyes, she stared back at the woman.

“Oh, you know, I figured your throat would be sore. I mean, we _heard_ you. Screaming. I believe the entire school must have listened in. You must be exhausted after such a visit.” 

  
  


Xxxx

“You might consider setting up a Silencing Charm on your chambers,” the Headmaster muttered as he served her tea again in the afternoon, his eyes most determinedly not meeting hers. 

Usually, it was a welcome break to talk to someone who actually wanted to talk to her too, but today, she’d rather he stayed silent. 

Her throat was actually still sore from screaming last night, just like the Carrow woman had predicted, but she had refused the suggestion of honey with a growl. Now, her blush rose quickly. _Hopefully, they all thought Voldemort had tortured her. But what had she been screaming? She had a nagging suspicion that it was something along the lines of ‘more! Oh please, more!’ This … was awkward._

She replied, as primly as she could: “I will.” 

“Thank you,” he said equally stiffly.

There was a small pause, before he asked: “How often do you expect to … entertain him? The students find it quite disturbing when he’s here, as you must know. Meeting him in the halls and such. Uh, well, the _sounds_.” 

She winced, but tried to pass it off as a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t really know. I can’t seem to find any set limit on how regular it should be for maintaining the power from the ritual.” 

Snape looked very relieved to be discussing magic instead of inappropriate sounds. “Hmm. I believe the power might be waning in between, but it’s probably true that there are no set limits to it. No one really knows much about the magical workings of those rituals anymore, except, maybe … _him_.” 

Shaking her head, she said curtly: “I’m not going to ask.” 

“Probably a wise decision,” he said smoothly. “Would you be amenable to a brewing session tonight? For your exam, you should be able to brew the Draught of Living Death, the base for Felix Felicis, the Wiggenweld Potion as well as a few choice poisons and antidotes. We could get started on the Wiggenweld.” 

Hermione nodded. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” Hesitating, she asked: “Sir, is it possible for me to go other places than Hogwarts? Like visiting Hogsmeade? I mean, there’s peace, sort of, and it shouldn’t be dangerous in any way, and I gave my promise, so…?” 

The Headmaster shook his head, slowly. “No, you’re to stay at Hogwarts.” 

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. 

Snape sighed. “It’s for your own good. Your … position … might put you in danger. As you must realize, there are a lot of people who’d like nothing more than to harm you for taking up with _him_.”

She bristled: “I can protect myself, thank you very much!” 

Her Professor arched an eyebrow. “While you’re undoubtedly quite powerful, even strong witches and wizards can be overcome if enough people gang up on them in an alley. No, Miss Granger, I can’t allow that.” 

The truth blurted out in a small whine: “I just wanted to see my friends!” 

Snape stilled, but then his mouth quirked. “For the sake of appearances, I’m going to interpret this as the fact that you want to talk to young Mr. Weasley _only._ ” 

“Yes, of course, just Ron,” she said hurriedly, internally smacking herself for even mentioning it. 

“Seeing Weasley shouldn’t be a problem, as he’s a part of the cease-fire deal you made with the Dark Lord. Though, I won’t grant him access to Hogwarts. However, I can...” he looked like he was debating with himself before coming to a conclusion, the furrows and ridges in his face deepening, “...allow you to visit the Shrieking Shack through the tunnel, by extending the wards to half of the room where the tunnel opens. By doing this, you’ll be able to talk to each other across the boundary of the wards. That would give you and Mr. Weasley some privacy. But mark my words, he has to stay away from the wards or face the consequences, and as for you… I’ll know if you breach the line. If you do, you can expect the Dark Lord to be very angry with you .. and me.” 

Xxxx

A heavy smog of fear hung over the English National Quidditch Stadium. _The Dementors would have a field day,_ Voldemort thought. _As for himself, he felt energized by it - like he too could feed off people’s terror, not only listen in on their terror through Legilimency._

The Ministry had worked hard, rounding up every single Mudblood who had been in the Relocation Camp, and now, they were all gathered in the Stadium to ‘celebrate’ their return into Wizarding society. The pitch was green, lush and verdant, and the flags on the stands, bearing the Dark Mark, was flapping merrily in the sunlight. 

_And there were so many of them…_ Almost 3000 Mudbloods in varying ages were gathered in the stands, and Voldemort felt close to amazed. _Who knew the vermin bred so fast and effectively? This amounted to at least 30 Mudbloods born each year in the last 90 years, while the whole of Britain's wizarding world had produced approximately three hundred children a year._

Never mind the numbers, Ministry PR officers had been working overtime, preventing any doubts and fears of leaking out in the not-so-free press. His Death Eaters were out in full force, and his special task forces of Obliviaters were ready to roll, before he’d set a Mass-Illusion inserted as a memory into the minds of Mudbloods and guards, telling a story of sunshine and gentle teachings, instead of hunger, torture and death. 

Moments before he Revealed himself on the pitch, he nodded to Antonin. The big man jerked his head in reply, before raising his hand, signalling to the squads placed strategically in every Quidditch stand. 

_He had had to expand the squads with much more people than originally planned to cover all the Mudbloods, but at least, every squad of five was led by a fully competent Death Eater, mingling Ministry Obliviaters - who in turn would have to be Obliviated themselves - with his followers._

Silence fell, and then the entire Stadium sighed as the Obliviates fell over the crowd. Preparing himself, he gathered his magic, feeling the pleasurable jolt the power boost from his liaison with Granger afforded him. The feeling began somewhere in his toes, building, climbing, burning its way up his body, filling him with a bright incandescence, like he was luminous, filled with pulsing brilliant stars. Taking a deep breath through his slitted nostrils, he shaped the Illusion - _the good food, the pleasant teachers, the joy of learning, of belonging to a world previously not understood by the Mu...Muggleborns, unlocking the deep secrets of the Wizarding World and a deep respect for the culture and the traditions of the Pure-bloods, the acceptance of the Mu..Muggleborns’ rightful place as somewhere below the Pure-bloods and Half-bloods but above the Beings, the understanding of the importance of preserving Magical Blood._

Opening his eyes, he sent the Illusion forth in a burst of power, making the Stadium fill with myriads of glittering lights, swooping towards each Mudblood in attendance, a neat packet of memories and feelings to delve deep into their minds, taking root and grow into a seamless experience filling the void left by the Obliviate. 

When at last the lights settled, winking out of existence, he took a deep breath, feeling nearly exhausted. Disbanding his Disillusionment Charm, he set a Sonorous at his throat, proceeding to give the Mu...Muggleborns a rousing welcome speech to mark their inclusion into the Wizarding world. _Merlin, it was hard, kicking the habit of a lifetime of saying Mudbloods._

Xxxx

“What are you doing here so soon?” she gasped, feeling half panicked, half bewildered. _It was only days since his last visit - surely, the renewal could wait for a few weeks? Hadn’t he been busy today with that insane scheme of his - ‘celebrating’ the Muggleborns return to society? She couldn’t even begin to understand why he did something like that, but why did he have to show up here afterwards?_

He looked like he had dressed with care, in a thick silk robe complete with a dark green cloak with silver lining. Having entered her room without her noticing, he had suddenly been standing in front of her chair, like a silent spectre. The flames in the fireplace flickered behind him, giving the room a warm, ruddy glow. _Nothing like the lump of ice that had just formed in her stomach. Not at all._

“Down on your knees,” he muttered, red eyes hooded as he watched her. Sliding down from her chair, she obeyed, kneeling by his feet, and he parted his robes, pulling out his cock. 

It was the first time she saw him at half-mast. _The thing between his legs was still large, scaringly so, but it twitched and grew in front of her, rising up into a proud erection, intimidatingly big._

“Lick your lips,” he commanded, taking hold of her head. Feeling tears brimming in her eyes, she wet her lips like he said, and he groaned at the sight of her tongue, before pushing his cock towards her mouth, letting the wide, flared head butt at her lips. The musky smell hit her nose, and she almost reeled. Though it didn’t smell bad, exactly, the scent of him just accentuated what she was about to do. _And, she didn’t want to, not at ALL!_

“Open up.” 

Closing her eyes, she gingerly took the head of his dick into her mouth, and he grunted. 

“Good. Now suck. Use your tongue, girl. The better you get at this, the faster I'll be done.” 

That made her open her eyes, sending him an angry glance, and he chuckled. “Can’t stomach to not be the best in anything, can you? Even cocksucking is an acquired skill. You must practice.” 

Snorting softly - _like she’d ever want to win the prize for giving Voldemort the best blow job of his life -_ she nevertheless started to suck with more vigour on the large thing filling her mouth. 

He groaned again, pushing into her mouth, and she gagged as the big, bulbous head thrust into the back of her throat. “Yes,” he hissed, “That’s it, little witch. Go on, suck harder. Make your Lord come down your throat.” 

She blinked. _Was this all he wanted for tonight? Only her mouth? Suddenly, her spirit lifted. Maybe she wouldn’t have to let him fuck her properly. Maybe she wouldn’t experience the great humiliation of being aroused by him. Maybe her body wouldn’t betray her tonight._

He started to push into her mouth for earnest, holding a firm grip on her head, and she immediately regretted her brief flare of relief. _She could barely breathe, almost choking on his considerable size._ His tempo increased, and his thrusts were getting rougher by the second, and she wondered if she’d actually throw up on his member, trying to pull away, trying to get a moment to breathe, tears leaking from her eyes. 

“I’m turning you into exactly what I need right now,” he muttered, “such a good, little…” before suddenly thrusting _deep_ into her throat. Her arms flailed wildly, trying to push away from him, as he convulsed into her, jets of semen shooting down her throat. _It hurt too, her throat burned around him, and she couldn’t breathe…_

As he retreated, she coughed, gasping for breath, her eyes brimming with tears. 

He was leaning against the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle, eyes closed, his chest heaving, a satisfied expression on his face. 

“I thought the renewal needed me to come too,” she managed to say, feeling confused and dizzy from the lack of air. Then it struck her: _That was the last thing she wanted to do. Why, oh why had she opened that can of worms?_

Lazily, he grinned at her. “You’re right,” he said. “The ritual does require us both to come. However, you can consider this a pleasure visit, not a renewal visit. I told you, I’d have access to you as often as I liked. I’ll see you next week. In the meantime, sweet dreams, little princess.” 

Xxxx

Later that night, she stumbled through the tunnel, the trailing roots from the trees above brushing her head, sometimes snagging in her curls. She felt like she was about to explode - _she needed to unload, to tell someone about her her experiences, someone who would be sympathetic. Ron would hear her out, she knew. While she’d miss Harry, it was much too dangerous for him to show up. Everyone agreed on that, even Harry._

Climbing up the narrow ladder and into the room, she gasped in relief, seeing Ron’s face. _Merlin, she had missed him so much!_ He looked much better than last time, in all likelihood due to being back on a stable diet of Molly’s cooking. A big, but wavering smile cracked on his face, and he breathed: “Hermione!” 

Then she gasped again, this time in shock, as Harry moved out from the shadows. “You came - both of you!” But she couldn’t help adding: “Harry, I thought we agreed on this being too dangerous. Snape might set a trap for you… He might monitor movements in Hogsmeade, and... ” 

“I wanted to see you,” Harry said, looking so sad and forlorn. “I had to see if you were ok. All this is my fault, Hermione, and I... ” his voice broke, and moisture glittered in those big, green eyes. 

Hermione sighed. _For once, she had wanted this to be about her. Her problems, her pain. And now, her best friend had made it into his problem, his pain. Again._

Briskly she reminded them, falling back into her ‘sensible, level-headed’ persona: “You can’t cross the warding line. It should be somewhere in the middle of the room. I’m not sure what the wards would do, but knowing Snape, it’s something nasty.” 

Raising a hand, she pushed out her magic, making the warding line rise as a shimmery haze across the room. “Be careful, don’t touch it,” she admonished. 

“Yes,” the boys chorused, looking relieved. In all probability, they were grateful she wasn’t a crying, depressed mess. _Oh, if only they knew how she felt…_

With a small flick of her magic, she cleaned a large space on the dirty floor to sit on, sinking down on her knees, resting her hands on her knees. 

“It’s good to see you,” she muttered, looking at her friends. 

“So,” Ron said awkwardly, “how are you, really?” 

Giving them a bitter smile, she said: “Good and bad. Most days are fine, because all I do is read and sleep. Then, as you know, there are those fake news articles he makes them print, which makes me positively gag, and then there are those times when _he_ shows up, and...” 

She stopped herself with a bitter shrug. 

The boys averted their eyes from her, both of them blushing fiercely. 

And then it poured out of her, there was no stopping the rush, because they knew part of it already, and who _else_ could she confide in? “And I must be insane, because you know what? I enjoy it, every time he takes me. I feel so sick, I’m so disgusted with myself, and still, I come for him! Am I going crazy, is that it? Tell me, am I going mad?” 

Tears were pooling, and she scrubbed her hands into her eyes, trying to hold back. Mouths gaping in mute shock, the boys stared at her. _With a sinking feeling, she knew this was the exact nightmare they had feared before coming here. They wanted a happy, resourceful and rational friend, not a whimpering, anguished broken thing. They weren’t able to cope with her pain._

After a long while, Harry blinked, muttering: “It might be a spell, or something, don’t you think? It’s not like you would… By your own volition… you know.” 

Ron nodded, a little too fervently, before he said, face blushing scarlet: “Hermione, there’s also people who… you know, I mean… Humiliation and pain does it for them, right? Could that be it for you? It’s nothing you could help if it’s like that for you, but still… I mean, _him.”_

Her tears were falling freely now, there was no stopping it, and she sobbed: “You mean I’m like a masochist, is that it? Getting turned on by him forcing me? Merlin, that’s… I’m so afraid, I don’t want to be like that!” 

Harry said decisively: “Seriously, Hermione, it’s more likely that he uses a spell on you. It’s _him,_ remember? He has all sorts of tricks and spells up his sleeve. I bet he’s doing this just to make you feel awful.” 

With a small wail, she whimpered: “I hope you’re right, Harry. Sweet Morgana, I hope you are right.” 

She wished there was some way to fool the wards, so she could have her friends hug her. But she knew, there was no way to trick the Hogwarts’ wards, not when the perimeter had been set by someone as capable as Snape. _A wizard like him would give no leeway. She didn’t even dare to extend a hand across the line, though she craved a friendly touch. Someone to touch her without any malevolent intent. Was that too much to ask of her life?_

Face grim, Ron said quietly: “Hermione, you should use this to your advantage. Have you been able to talk to him, making him open up?” 

“What? No,” she sobbed. “Not talking all that much, no. Not anything more than I’ve told you on the coins.” 

“You have to try harder. Befriend him. You’re right, we’re not getting much useful intel out of your reports, so… if there’s to be any use in you doing this, you need to step up your game.” 

Incredulous, she stared at Ron. Harry was white-faced, tight-lipped, but he nodded. 

“B..b...be..befriend him?” she stuttered. “I … I… m-m-mean, we’re talking about You-Know-Who here, are we? It’s n-n-not like I can… just… ” 

“Yes. you can.” Ron had the look of a general in the war room about him, a stony no-nonsense attitude, ready to deploy his forces, accepting those losses and casualties necessary to win the war. _Only… she was the one to be sacrificed, wasn’t she?_

She goggled at her friends, like she didn’t _know_ them anymore, as Ron continued, like he was reasoning with her: “Hermione, you should try talking to him, before, during and after. Show him how much you enjoy it, then, try to convince him that you’re actually not resenting your position. Flatter him, try to learn from him, and he might open up. Like Kingsley said, he’s just a man. Try talking about magic to him, and gradually, you can steer your conversations to how he expects to live forever. Get information on the Horcruxes, Hermione. Do what you can to help us out, here.” 

Snapping, feeling as this was a new level of unfairness, like she didn’t _want_ to help, like they had to cajole her into helping, she hissed: “You want me to really play his whore, don’t you? He doesn’t _want_ to be a man, you know? It’s not like a fuck makes him all warm and fuzzy on the inside!” 

Ron took a deep breath, glancing at Harry, but Harry looked down on the floor, clenching his fists, knuckles whitening. _It was clear, they had talked about this beforehand. They had prepared to meet her. She was to be collateral damage, just a weapon to be used in the war. She wasn’t important anymore, what mattered was her usefulness._

“Yes,” Ron said at last. “To win the war, you must play his whore. Maybe, as it is _him_ we’re talking about, with his powers of Legilimency, maybe you have to _be_ his whore to make him believe. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to be a man, you can flatter him for being inhuman, if that’s what makes him tick. He still is something of a man, and all men like to be praised. But do it, Hermione, and do it quick. We need to know more to win the war. You must do _more_ to help Harry win.” 

Xxxx

On her way through the grounds, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She walked slowly, aimlessly, like every step was a chore. _The Order had thrown her under the bus. She was to be nothing but Voldemort’s whore, passing intel. She wasn’t Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of her Age anymore, not the good friend and loyal partner in crime. She had no friends. She was an object to be used - used for intel from one side, and used brutally for sex from the other side. Her mind, body and soul didn’t matter anymore - she didn’t matter, only what she could provide. Like she wasn’t a real person to anyone. Just a thing, something to be cast away if it wasn’t useful. Like there was no value in her as a person._

Eyes brimming with tears, she had never felt so alone, so bereft. _It felt like she had no one. No one was on_ **_her_ ** _side. Not even Harry anymore. No one cared for her._

Stumbling along, she sat down on a bench outside Greenhouse Three, staring dejectedly down on the lush, green glass. The stars shimmered in the skies, and around her, insects were buzzing. She had no idea how long she had been sitting there, when a voice said: 

“Umm, Hermione? Are you … alright?” 

Looking up, she saw Neville, round eyes looking worriedly down at her. 

She tried giving him a ghost of a smile, but instead, her face crumpled, and what came out was a hoarse sob: “No.” 

He blinked, looking uncertain, before he sat down beside her. Hiding her face in her hands, she hunched her shoulders, as all her despair and loneliness came welling up, deep wracking sobs grinding through her body. 

At first, he patted her shoulder awkwardly, but then he sighed, pulling her in to rest her head on his shoulder. 

“There, there,” he crooned. “I don’t know how you got yourself into this mess, Hermione, but I’m sure you don’t deserve it. Let it out, it will be better, someday, you know.” 

For a long time, there was only her sniffles, gut wrenching sobs and hiccups, her tears soaking his robe, and the aching surprise of there actually being someone _who wanted to comfort her._ That made her cry even harder, but in the end, she stilled, having no more tears to cry. 

She was just about to pull back to thank him for just being there, when there was a slow whistle coming from a distance. _A whistle from someone having seen something noteworthy._

Nevile tensed, shoving her away from him, but it was too late. She raised her head, seeing the smug face of Alecto Carrow, lush lips crooked into an evil grin, and the shocked, furious face of Severus Snape. The two Death Eaters were apparently out on a nightly stroll, doing Merlin knew what, but now, they were facing Neville and Hermione. 

“Granger, Granger,” the Carrow witch tutted. “His Lordship _won’t_ like anyone touching what’s his. You, Longbottom, will wish for my punishment so many times before he’s through with you. Don’t you think so, Severus?” 

“Definitely,” the Headmaster said clippedly, rage blazing in his eyes. “How on earth could you be this stupid, Granger? I know Longbottom hasn’t much going for him by way of brains, but you should be able to comprehend what the Dark Lord would do if you stray from him.” 

Hermione blinked. “It wasn’t like that,” she said weakly, “I was just … crying. Pregnancy hormones, you know,” she lied weakly. “Neville just comforted me.” 

“Is that right,” Alecto Carrow purred. “It could have looked like anything from a distance.” 

“It did,” Snape said heavily, his jaw working furiously. 

“No, no,” Hermione said anxiously, “it wasn’t. You know, _he_ can check by way of Legilimency, I mean, _you_ can do that too, sir,” she said, looking pleadingly at the Headmaster. 

He scowled, jabbing his head towards the Carrow woman, and Hermione understood: _Alecto Carrow wouldn’t care about what had happened. She’d spread rumours, forcing Voldemort to retaliate to save his pride. This… was bad. So be it, there was only one way to solve this problem._

Her resolve firmed, and she rose quietly, plucking her wand out from her wandholster in her sleeve. But the Headmaster was faster. In a flash, he had his wand at Alecto Carrow’s head, murmuring: “ _Obliviate.”_

The small witch blinked, before her expression became vacant, empty, and she turned around, plodding back to the castle. 

Snape was breathing out of his nose, still looking furious, before he turned on his heels, marching back towards the castle, black cloak flapping behind him. 

“What was that about?” Neville wondered. 

“I don’t know,” she said bewildered, staring after Snape’s retreating form. Gathering her thoughts, she turned to Neville, saying softly: “Thank you. I needed that, but obviously, this wasn’t a good idea. It almost got us both killed. But still… Thanks for being there, Neville. You really have no idea how much I appreciated that right now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, will there be any new allies for Hermione in this mess...? 
> 
> I'm taking a liberty by estimating how many witches and wizards there are born each year. The books really doesn't say, but with anything less than a few hundreds, they'd be totally inbred in a few generations.


	9. Undertones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Headmaster cut her off sharply: “Haven’t you learned by now that things only get worse? Her presence is going to ruin what little solitude and peace I have left. And then there’s going to be a squalling baby.”

_Headmaster Snape was drunk. There was no other way she could interpret his behaviour._

He was sitting slumped on the worktable, in his shirtsleeves, and he hadn’t made one cutting comment about her brewing for almost half an hour. The large tumbler of Firewhisky at his side had been emptied and refilled several times from the bottle behind him on the table, as she brewed the Draught of Living Death. 

The air in his private lab was humid, the smoke from her simmering cauldron curling up towards the roof, staying there, forming a layer of haze. 

Their previous brewing sessions had been good, much to her surprise. She gathered, his newfound politeness towards her made him into a better teacher. He had always been a good teacher, in her opinion, but much too harsh and strict. In these private lessons, he was more agreeable, though still very much snarky, and still willing to find faults with her work. 

That’s why it was unnerving, having someone like him just observe her work without commenting on the way she sliced, diced or stirred. In the end, she asked: “Are you alright, sir?” 

“Alright?” he barked a short laugh, black eyes red-rimmed and glazed. “Can’t say that, haven’t been for a long time, really.” 

“Oh,” she said, shooting him a furtive glance. His expression was bitter, like he _hated_ his thoughts, maybe even himself. 

“And now,” he muttered, voice slurring, “it’s all going to be worse. With this damned marriage. To that … foolish scrap of a girl.” 

“I’m sure it’ll turn out alright,” she said, voice faltering, knowing very well that sometimes, things just didn’t work out. 

He cut her off sharply: “Haven’t you learned by now that things _only_ get worse? Her presence is going to ruin what little solitude and peace I have left. And then there’s going to be a squalling baby.” 

“Will she live here with you?” she asked curiously. 

“Merlin, _no_ ! I’ll install her in Hogsmeade, but I’m sure she’ll be around to pester me enough. But… she’s coming to visit tomorrow. Here, at Hogwarts, to make the final plans for the wedding. And _Jesus fucking Christ_ , I can’t stand that foolish bint!” 

Hermione turned around from her cauldron, staring at him. She’d never heard Snape swear before, and had certainly never expected to hear him use Muggle swearing. 

“What?” He said defiantly at her, peering at her, eyes not focusing properly, confirming her theory of him being roaring drunk. 

“It’s just that… I never expected you to…” 

“Oh, you mean covering up your little dalliance with Longbottom?” He cocked his eyebrows, eyes glinting with amusement. 

“No, no,” she said, flustered. _He had suddenly turned the conversation into something entirely different, something she wasn’t really prepared for._

“Because what were you _thinking_ , Granger? Longbottom, of all people? Talk about scouring the cauldron for dregs!” He shook his head, Summoning a new bottle of Firewhisky, before putting the neck to his mouth, drinking deeply. Then he muttered: “Even the Dark Lord can’t be that bad.” 

And suddenly, she saw her opening. _She needed to be smarter, to win trust and maybe friendship with these people to learn something useful. She couldn’t just wallow in her misery, she had a war to win. This - this thing Snape had done for her, could be utilized to make him trust her._

“Thank you, sir,” she said meekly. “I’m grateful. Truly, there isn’t anything between Neville and me, but I realize, it was a stupid thing to do. I understand how it must have looked. I’m in your debt. Is there anything I can do for you?” 

His eyes lit up with a calculating look, and he tapped his lips. _Trust a Slytherin to be interested in debts and deals, she almost snorted to herself._

“There is something,” he muttered. “Invariably, that bitch I’m marrying is going to complain about my less than stellar enthusiasm for her. Can you make sure she vents to you? And you’ll tell me what she says. I suspect she’s a little liar, I can see her laying it on thick. I want to know what she’ll be telling people.” 

Hermione felt her eyes become round with surprise. Whatever he had wanted, she had never expected this - _spying on Snape’s wife for him_. “I think so, I can do that,” she said, omitting the fact that she’d never been all that good with the girly stuff, having had zero close female friends in her life. _She could do it. With Snape’s approval, she might even get to visit Hogsmeade, and his wife would be just another door into Death Eater society, presenting new opportunities for gathering information. Yes, she could pretend to make best friends with a silly Death Eater wife._

“Good,” Snape said. Smirking at her surprise, he slurred: “I can see you’re thrown by this, aren’t you? You didn’t think I’d ask this? If she wags her tongue too much, I’d have to take steps to preserve the family pride. And as punishments go, I ..well, never mind.” 

He took another drink from the bottle, almost emptying it. Coughing a little, he continued, his mouth slack, the words almost unintelligible: “Truth to tell, if I could ask really anything of you, I’d rather ask you to suck my cock with that pretty little mouth of yours. But as I don’t have a death wish, you’d better watch your cauldron instead. It’s going to blow in twenty seconds.” 

Xxxx

Entering her quarters, she shook her head. _Now, she had seen it all. A drunk Snape, sort of propositioning her. It was even more unreal than her being the Dark Lord’s so-called plaything._

Still, she felt a little angry, no matter how drunk he had been. _How in the blazes had the man thought her to be amenable to something like that? He knew she was forced into carnal relations with someone she detested, without any say in the matter, so why would she want to entertain another wizard too?_

Sitting down heavily in front of her fireplace, the flames roaring to life with a whisper of her new powers, she rested her head in her hands. Hermione wished, she was able to drink too. It felt like the right thing to do, to drink oneself into oblivion, forgetting everything that had happened - and everything that was going happen. 

_Ingratiating herself with Severus Snape was probably one of the easiest things on her to do-list. He seemed to enjoy her company - maybe a little too much, as the evening had proved - but she was also sure, he’d never ever step out of line while sober. Befriending his future wife would be far more boring, but the main thing was still to make Voldemort confide in her._

Shuddering, she knew, as much as it pained her, Ron had been somewhat right. She might not like it, but it was true. _She needed to step up her game, but what would it take for Voldemort to talk to her about his Horcruxes? Far, far more than sexual favours, because he didn’t trust anyone, and she didn’t think_ **_that_ ** _likely to change. Oh well, she’d find a way, like she always did._

Sitting back, she Summoned a tea service, waiting patiently as a House-elf popped in with a steaming teapot, a cup and a plate of her favourite shortbread biscuits. 

Sipping the black tea slowly, she leaned back, resting her head against the wingback chair. _Yes, she’d manage, and make sure the Order won the war._ But at the end of it all, she wasn’t all that sure her friendship with Ron and Harry would survive. Because no matter how right they had been about the actions she needed to take, there was also the matter of their total insensitivity towards her. The way that she had become just a tool for achieving the goal, like she was something less than a friend, less than a human being with feelings, even. _It was clear, she was on her own now. The thought of leaving the country after the war held an increasing attraction for her._

Xxxx

“Oh, you’re the Dark Lord’s little sweetheart!” the young woman gushed at her, and Hermione plastered a sickly polite grin on her face.

Inside, she was chanting to herself: _You’re supposed to be spying. You’re supposed to play nice with these people, not decking Professors Snape’s fiancee. You’re not going to punch her, even though she must be more stupid than Lavender Brown at her worst. You are supposed to befriend her, because it would give you access to even more Death Eaters to spy on, and because you need to get Snape to trust you. Don’t kick her in the legs._

The uncomfortable thought that Snape maybe - secretly - wanted something else from her too, she hid deep in her mind, as she continued to smile at the man’s fiancee. 

“I guess I am, lucky me?” she said, blinking rapidly in response, trying to look as vacant as possible. McGonagall was not helping, because behind Perenella Avery’s back, she could see the old witch fighting an incredulous laugh, before she turned away, shoulders shaking. 

The Headmaster held a small reception in the teachers’ lounge, and Hermione had been invited too, as she was the “revered guest” of the Headmaster. The professors were milling about, drinking champagne and eating canapes, and Snape stood at the centre of the room, arms crossed over his chest, glowering like he’d rather kiss one of the goats roaming about the Hog’s Head pub than hosting this event. 

The large, dark brown leather chairs were pushed back against the bookshelves along the wall, and a groaning table with drinks and food stood at one side. The room smelt heavily of flowers, as lilies in all shapes and colours were set out in large vases throughout the chamber. 

In the pocket of his robe, Snape had a single white lily as a boutonniere, and at times, Hermione could see him touch the flower gently, a pained expression flitting over his face. 

Hermione supposed, he was hungover from last night too, having passed out in his lab before she finished the Draught of Living Death, shortly after his statement of wanting a blow job from her. _She fervently hoped he didn’t remember that part._

His fiancee, though, had been flittering like a butterfly from teacher to teacher, cooing and smiling, and now, she had ended in Hermione’s corner, interrupting the chat Hermione had with Professor Flitwick. They had been discussing the possibilities of Muggleborns returning to Hogwarts in the autumn after that strange event the Dark Lord had staged at the English National Quidditch Stadium. As soon as Snape’s fiancee had opened her mouth, Professor Flitwick had excused himself with a nauseated look on his face, walking away as fast as his short legs could carry him. _Clearly, she hadn’t been among his favourite students._

The witch was beautiful, Hermione had to give her that, remembering her vaguely from Hogwarts as a lively, but fairly clever girl. _She had been in Slytherin_ , _as the rest of the Averys._

Perenella Avery had long red hair, curling softly down her slender back, sparkling green eyes and a pretty face, lightly sprinkled with freckles. _Somehow, Hermione was reminded of the few pictures she had seen of Harry’s mother._ Furrowing her brows, she remembered that Snape and Lily Potter had known each other, being friendly, before they had that awful fallout which Harry had told her and Ron about during their time in the woods. _Maybe Snape had been reminded of his youth at Equinox. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t remembered to protect himself against possible pregnancies. Because it was abundantly clear, this marriage wasn’t what he had wanted for his future._

Hermione quelled a deep sigh. _Befriend the woman, that was it. Pretend to be all girly and bubbly - not that this was an art she mastered, but she was about to try._

Noting that Perenella was holding a flute of champagne, she leaned forward, whispering: “Does the Headmaster allow you to drink? You see, _I_ am not allowed to taste even a droplet.” 

“Oh!” the woman’s large, green eyes became even wider. “I haven’t thought about that at all. You’re right, of course. Aww, the Dark Lord takes such good care of you and the child, doesn’t he? Even forbidding you to drink wine!” 

Hermione’s eyes almost bugged out of her head, before she smiled feebly. _She had been quite sure, Voldemort had very little to do with her not getting served any wine, leaving all practical things to Snape. But it was strange, though, that Snape wouldn’t go to such lengths for his own child. Maybe Voldemort had in fact instructed him. Somehow, that was a_ **_very_ ** _disturbing thought._

Shaking her head to clear her mind from that baffling idea, she cooed back: “As you said, I’m such a lucky, lucky witch. When _is_ your wedding, exactly?”

“Just two weeks, now, and it’s going to be so grand!” the future Madam Snape squealed happily, eyes shining at the thought of her big day. Lowering her voice, she confided: “Severus wanted it after the school year was finished, but I made my Dad put his foot down. You know, his little girl shouldn’t be _showing_ at her wedding, right? It would also limit my dress choices too much.” 

“You are _so right,_ ” Hermione cooed back, “of course, you have the right to wear any dress you’d like in your own wedding!” 

“Definitely,” the witch beamed at her, “I can tell, you understand what I’m talking about. Now listen, the reception will be held at Malfoy Manor, and everyone who is _something_ will be there. I hear there’s a thousand on the guest list now! It’s going to be the biggest social event of the year! I mean, we’ll be on the frontpage of the Prophet _and_ Witch Weekly!” 

“You and the Headmaster must be so excited,” Hermione said dryly, chancing a glance at Snape. He was still glowering, standing alone in the middle of the room, muttering something under his breath like he was reciting curses. 

“Oh yes, my Sevvie and I can’t wait!” Lowering her voice, Perenella whispered: “I am, of course, very busy picking out my dress. I need the best of the best, and papa has promised to take me to Paris. I can’t seem to find anything in Britain.” 

“Certainly,” Hermione said with a forced smile. “For such an occasion, you would need only the best. Maybe you should go to Milan too? I mean, the height of fashion - you know.” _Sevvie. Oh sweet Merlin, she wondered if Snape knew his future wife was referring to him as that. She couldn’t wait to see his expression when she told him._

“Aww, I knew you would understand!” the girl squealed. “This is a girl thing, you know, and Sevvie doesn’t seem to be interested at all. He’s not answering my letters when I ask for advice on colour scheme, flower arrangements or if we should have damask or spider silk napkins. The only thing he has said about our reception is that he wants enough Firewhisky to drown a Hippogriff. Odd thing to say about one’s wedding, don’t you think?” 

“Ah, yes, I suppose you’re right,” Hermione said weakly, “this is a girl thing. He probably doesn’t understand _anything._ Wizards, you know!” She shrugged, blinking helplessly at Perenella. 

The girl chatted on and on, and slowly Hermione realized, Snape had good reason to be scowling. He was tying himself to a complete, utter idiot, no matter how pretty she was. Though she was loath to admit it, even to herself, Hermione actually preferred her own predicament to Snape’s. No matter how she felt about Voldemort, he was, at the very least, intelligent. _And she would make sure he wasn’t around forever. Wizarding marriages, however, were for life._

Xxxx

“And we’ve successfully scoured their homes for any written materials on their experiences,” Augustus Rookwood concluded. 

It was a hot night, and he had gathered his Death Eaters in the gardens. The enchanted rose bushes were already blooming, giving off the sweet scents of high summer, even though it was still May. Severus had managed to blast a few flowers off their stems as he arrived, looking grumpier than usual. Narcissa had hissed at him, her normally gentle, well-bred demeanour forgotten in the face of the Headmaster’s ire towards her precious garden. 

Chilled crystal carafes of white wine from Lucius’ cellars hovered behind them, and Antonin was chewing with gusto those peanuts he so favoured. Personally, Voldemort thought the peanuts ruined the taste of the excellent Bourgogne Sorcellerie, and he much preferred pairing the wine with select paper thin slices of Spanish Bellota ham. Nagini rustled in the soft, lush grass, and every now and then, he fed her slices of ham, like she was a pet dog. Her scales dragging over his skin as she coiled around his bare feet was soothing, comfortable. _Yes, this was a good night._

Voldemort nodded at Augustus. _The whole Mudblood - Muggleborn - operation had gone smoothly, from the mass Obliviate event itself, to Obliviating the Ministry Obliviators afterwards._

“I trust you took care to not be seen,” he remarked, feeling mostly confident that these people, his extended Inner Circle, was smart enough to avoid trouble. _Except, maybe, Bella._

But the woman nodded eagerly, looking at him with that hungry, breathless expression she always sported around him. _Well, he had to admit, he liked adoration, but Bella’s was maybe a tad over the top._

His other followers nodded calmly. He had made a good choice when he let Augustus lead this part of the operation. The man was effective, but most of all smart, like the seasoned politician he was, used to maneuver around the Ministry. _Stealth was his greatest strength, vital to a mission like this._

“You’ve done well, Augustus,” he stated, and the man lit up with a big smile. _The same smile that made him charm his way into alliances and deals with ease. Voldemort knew how far you could get with charm, after all, he had utilized that enough in his youth._

Bella looked disgruntled, because he knew, she hated it when any of his other Death Eaters were praised. With a long, painted nail, she tapped her lips, and Voldemort almost smiled. His enforcer was desperately planning how she’d get into his good graces again, to be his favourite. _There was nothing like a bit of healthy competition amongst his people._

To his right, Severus was going through glasses of wine with an almost alarming speed. Voldemort thought he looked somewhat scruffy, like he had been drinking too much lately, though the evening had just began.

“I hear you entertained your fiancee this afternoon,” Voldemort said to him, a small smile curling around his mouth. _Oh, how Severus hated the thought of that marriage. He had almost raged against his Lord when the deal with the Avery’s had been settled. But then again, Severus was a much too valuable wizard to leave him to his own devices. Powerful people should be begetting heirs to strengthen the wizarding stock._

“Yes,” the man said curtly, black hair almost hiding his face. “She took a liking to your, ah, I mean the Granger girl.” 

Voldemort blinked in surprise. “She did?” He couldn’t help wondering how that had happened. Those girls were nothing alike, though he supposed, Granger might be lonely. _He’d have to pay her a visit soon._ Shifting on his chair, he felt his cock stir at the thought. Really, the thing did more than stir, he was actually on his way to a full erection by the thought of her. Almost shaking his head, he thought he should have been old enough - by far - to control his libido. _Well, there would be time for that later. Now, he had other matters to attend to._

“Well, here’s what we’ll do next,” he said, making his followers sit straighter, listening attentively. “As you know, the Roman wizards led by the adage ‘bread and circus.’ As you know, in a few weeks, we’re going to provide _more_ circus, creating a diversion, something to entertain the public, keeping their minds busy with enthusiasm, gossip and excitement.” 

  
  


Xxxx

The next day, she was brewing with the Headmaster again, doing one of the most difficult potions the NEWT testing could throw at her. This time, it was Veritaserum bubbling in her cauldron. The base would be simmering for a lunar phase, requiring only a few gentle stirs during that period after the base had been set, but still, to make a perfect base was very hard and exacting work. Hermione had entered his lab, being set on pretending that she had never, ever heard him talk about that blow job. _He was drunk, and it was to be excused, never to mention again, ever. Or else, she wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes. Luckily, he made no metion of it._

“Good,” the Headmaster said, sniffing the fumes, “now cease stirring. It will sit for thirty minutes, before you add the powdered root of Asphodel.” 

Hermione stepped back, leaving her stirring stick in a large silver disk. Snape’s private brewing facility was wonderfully equipped. Everything was immaculate, even such small details as that ornate vessel for keeping your stirring sticks while brewing. _No ordinary wooden bowls here, it was enchanted silver instead._

Looking at the Headmaster, she almost winced at the tired expression on his face. _He looked like he had been up all night._

Suddenly feeling sorry for him, she blurted out: “She’s godawful, isn’t she?” 

“What?” His eyebrows rose, for once looking genuinely surprised. 

“I mean… _her_ , you know,” she said hurriedly, “your fiancee.” 

“Oh, _her_ ,” he said, the corners at his eyes crinkling with unexpected amusement. “Yes, I wouldn’t think someone like you would find her all that agreeable. Neither do I, to tell the truth.” 

Almost hesitating, she told him of her chat with Perenella. As expected, he looked pained as she described the chitchat of dresses and media coverage, but as she concluded by telling him his fiancee referred to him as ‘Sevvie’, he merely groaned, scrubbing his face, like he was trying to wake up from a nightmare. 

“I’m sorry,” she muttered again, this time for a different reason. _And she found that she really was. Sorry for him, and sorry for herself. No one should face what they both were going through._

Professor Snape sighed, one hand coming up to brush his hair away from his face. “You and me both, girl,” he said resignedly, “you and me both.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, next chapter is all Voldemort-Hermione...


	10. Understated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swallowing, she closed her eyes. Maybe it would be easier, if she pretended he was some nameless, faceless wizard. Just someone she didn’t know, a stranger. 
> 
> “But I’m not,” he whispered, leaning in, licking her earlobe with his tongue. “I’m Lord Voldemort, and you know it.”

To his amusement, the girl looked horrified when he called on her, only days after his last visit. This time, however, he had another matter to discuss with her, though he would avail himself to the opportunity of taking her too. _Strangely, so far he hadn’t grown bored with her._

Then, something odd happened. Her face became blank, he felt her willing herself to be composed, her resolve hardening, before sending him a tentative, wavering smile by way of greeting: “Hi.” 

Voldemort stared at the girl in surprise. _What was she trying to achieve?_ Quickly, he delved into her unsuspecting mind. _Ah yes. She fancied herself a spy, thinking she’d have to step up her game, to interact more with him to find out anything. As it was, more interaction would play right into his hands, though it was unlikely she’d ever wrestle something out of him that he didn’t want to slip._

His lips quirking, he responded: “Hi yourself, little witch. Did you enjoy my gesture to the Mudbloods?” 

And just like that, the irascible little witch was fuming again.

“Well, I can’t really believe you’ve got the nerve! First, you herd them into a camp, doing Merlin-knows-what to them, and then you round them up to give them pretty speeches on how nice you were?” 

“Really,” he said mildly, gazing at her. Her chest heaved, and her pretty face was flushed. All in all, she looked _quite_ attractive, though there would be time for that later. “And how do you know they were treated badly? Everyone tells me how happy they were, for someone finally to take an interest in those obvious shortcomings you get by by growing up Muggle. As _you_ know, it’s hard work to assimilate oneself into another culture, another way of life. Most people aren’t like you, and can’t be bothered with studying so hard, learning so much, and changing yourself and your beliefs. They need to have it all handed to them on a plate. And in this case, I happened to just deliver.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Right. You expect me to believe that PR drivel? I’m not stupid, you know!” 

“I didn’t say you were. You will support the official story, as you well know. You might as well start learning it by rote.” 

The girl grumbled, looking away, and he couldn’t resist adding: “You are, after all, the poster girl for this story.” 

Her eyes flashed angrily, but to his surprise, she kept silent. Looking down at her, he noticed she had scrolls of parchment spread out, all of them cluttered by tiny, cramped handwriting. _Her own, he supposed._

“What’s this?” he said, indicating her work. _After all, he was here to offer teaching her magic, in return for a favour._

She shrugged. “Just doing some research on those ritual theories you spoke of last time. I’m trying to find out how the Equinox ritual actually works.” 

“To undo it?” he asked, feeling amused. 

“No, just to understand it,” she sighed. “Why must it be renewed? Why wasn’t once enough?” Her voice was plaintive, almost close to whining. 

Voldemort shrugged, deciding to give her a real answer, because she would have to research long and hard indeed to find the solution. He suspected she’d be more amenable to his request if she found him willing to offer her a scrap of knowledge for free.

Clearing his throat, he launched into the explanation: “A ritual is a coupling between the soul, the body and our magic. Your soul is mutable and fluctuating, your body changes, and your magic evolves. Why _would_ once be enough? It’s just as futile as trying to stop a river. A ritual is a point in time - it cannot be the flow. As you change, the ritual must too, to unite again and again the three ever-changing parts that you are made of.” 

Open-mouthed, she stared at him, eyes unseeing, but he could almost _hear_ the whirring of the gears in her mind. Blinking, she came back, looking dazed. “Of course,” she breathed, looking excited. “Of course…!” 

He felt almost pleased by her reaction, and he wondered if it really would be that easy to sway her with knowledge. Then her eyes sharpened, and she asked: “How does that work for you, when you haven’t got all of your soul?” 

This time, he was blinking. _Never in his wildest imagination had he thought she’d dare to call him out on his Horcruxes. No one ever had - not that many knew about them._

Feeling a sort of grudging respect for the girl’s bravery, he shrugged again. “It doesn’t seem to matter, as long as there is a piece left.” 

“How do you know? What if you had gained more power if your soul was whole?” 

He grunted. “I know, little witch. I _have_ performed this ritual before, with more .. pieces of my soul intact.”

“Does that mean my child will have half-siblings?” she countered, narrowing her eyes. 

Voldemort barked a short laugh. “No, I’ve never sired before. Rest assured, the child is my only heir and will be treated as such. In this way, I haven’t completed the ritual fully before.”

He caught a short flash of satisfaction from her, followed by confusion and surprise. _She had good instincts, being somewhat power-hungry and very protective of her own, but clearly, she wasn’t about to admit those traits to herself - yet._

The girl blinked, like she was clearing her head, before turning her mind to the safe path of magical theory again, tapping her lips pensively. “If only there was a way to measure this. I mean, how much power did I gain in proportion to my previous strength, and how much did you gain? It would be interesting to know.” 

“Relatively speaking? 25 to 32 percent,” he answered blandly. Her pretty little face scrunched up, and she said, voice low and dangerous: “Don’t toy with me, please. I want to know these things.” 

“It’s true, though. I’ve tested it before. When performing the ritual, the wizard gains a relatively steady percent of 32, while a virgin witch has to make do with an increase around 25 percent.” Her rankled expression made him chuckle. 

“You tested it,” she said skeptically. “How?” 

“By measuring their strength before and after, of course. It’s an easy spell, a derivation on how you test for the baby’s magic. And it is relative to the strength, so 32 percent of _my_ strength is rather … a lot … more than what you gained, even strong as you are.” 

She didn’t like that one bit, he could tell, but still, she didn’t relent: “So, it would be sensible to wait with a ritual like this until one had reached one’s full potential?” 

“Definitely,” he said. Debating for a moment, he decided to give her the full truth. _She’d be happier if he told her, and more likely to conform to his request_. “The reason for the difference is that a virgin witch is usually young, having rarely reached her potential, while the wizard taking part in this ritual is usually fully grown. If you had kept your virginity until you were, say, twenty-five, you’d probably get the full 32 too.” 

She shrugged, but muttered to herself: “Still, this is inherently sexist…” 

_Well, it was about time to get down to business._ He cocked his head, before sitting down in the chair beside her. That made her obviously nervous, and she was fidgeting in her chair. _He didn’t act as she expected._ Voldemort felt himself grin, enjoying her anxiety. 

“So, girl, I want to make a deal with you. I need you to escort me to a very public event, acting the way I need you too. In return, I’ll offer to teach you a spell, any spell, as you request.” 

That got her attention, and she chewed on her bottom lip, making his cock twitch, thinking about how well she had sucked him off last time. _Those lips, sliding against the sensitive head of his…_

Listening in to her thoughts, he noted idly that ideas were flying through her brain at breakneck speed. It was clear, she wanted to learn a lot of things, ranging from more ways to kill a Horcrux _\- that made him shake his head, like he’d ever be that stupid -_ blocking the Imperius _\- impossible, one didn’t block the curse, one resisted it -_ raising the dead to talk to them - _difficult, but possible -_ learning to fly - _a reasonable request -_ casting Mass Illusions - _tricky, but depending on one’s abilities -_ and then she landed on the one thing he couldn’t teach her. 

“Legilimency,” she said decisively. 

Humouring her before he would let her down, he asked: “Have you ever invaded anyone’s mind? Randomly, or with the intention to do so?” 

She frowned. “No, I don’t know how. That is the point, isn’t it” 

He shrugged. “Then you won’t be able to. It’s an inborn trait. It would have manifested earlier if you could.” 

“What about Occlumency?” 

He shook his head. “I could, but it takes a lot of time. Would you want me to visit you daily for months?” 

Seeing her blanch, he chuckled :”I thought not. You could ask Severus. He’s more than adept.” Muttering to himself, he added: “Too adept, actually.” 

She arched her eyebrows. “Why? What could he possibly gain from teaching me?” 

Smirking, he said: “I’m sure a witch like yourself could offer him something.” 

Her immediate blush made him scowl, as she whispered, mortified: “You mean for me to…” 

Snapping at her, his sudden irritation seeped through: “What? Not that. You’re not to offer _any_ wizard such things. You will _not_ make a fool of me. Anyone who comes near you, will face my wrath. You hear me?” 

At that, she nodded. “I guessed as much,” she remarked, but that blush was still high in her cheeks, making him wonder how her mind had gone down _that_ particular path - like he’d _ever_ suggest something like that. _Well, he could find out more about that later on._

“A better protective spell for dueling, then?” she asked. 

He nodded. Voldemort was well aware of the recent layers of hurt in her mind - they stood out like a festering sore among her otherwise rational, well-behaved thoughts. _She felt used, betrayed and cast away from her friends, and he just couldn’t resist poking a bit in that open wound. He could … work … with such emotions._

Responding, he said blithely: “I can do that. It seems fitting to your nature. You spend too much time protecting other people, don’t you? When did they ever protect you?” 

Her sudden flinch was very satisfying, but then she stopped herself, taking a deep breath. “I suppose you’re right. A better protective spell, then, for duelling. But… what’s the occasion? What do I have to do?” 

“Oh. Just Severus’ wedding. We’re doing a live broadcast on the wireless, and all the press is going to be out in full force. I want pretty pictures, you on my arm, smiling at me and acting besotted. ” 

She blinked. Slowly, once, then twice, before her face twisted into a grimace. “Besotted. Indeed.” 

Voldemort barely hid a grin. _She was rather amusing, being almost as disgusted by acting like that as himself._ “Yes. We’re going to enact what I said in that interview.” 

Angrily, she muttered: “About that interview… I mean, a bit over the top, wasn’t it?” 

“I’m happy to learn that you agree,” he smirked. “It was …” 

“I know what it was,” she said angrily, “what I want to know is _why.”_

“Oh, you’ll see,” he said airily. “It suits my plan.” 

She snorted, but he continued: “For now, it’s enough with the love story and the child.” _He couldn’t resist upsetting her even further._ So he added: “And later, there’ll be more.” 

The girl paled, and he couldn’t help grinning as she whispered: “What do you mean?” 

“You’ll see,” he smirked. 

Xxxx

She was still worrying about his plans, when he rose, taking her hand, tugging her into the bathroom. 

Before she knew it, she was naked, the giant tub at their feet was filling up, steam wafting in the spacious room. 

Then he was naked too, whisking his robe away with a flick of his magic, lifting her effortlessly up, arms far stronger than she had anticipated, and he threw her into the water. 

Hermione yelped, arms flailing as her head went under, but he slid into the water too, scooping her up to press her into his hard body. 

With a small shudder, she tried to ready herself mentally for what was coming. _With this, he’d have violated her last sanctuary, the bathroom where she had cried alone, where she had tried to rinse herself from his touch from their earlier encounters at Hogwarts. He’d take her again, and she would - in all probability - enjoy it._

“Yesss, you will, little witch,” he crooned, sliding his hands over her arse, giving her cheeks a light slap with his right hand. It stung, and she yelped again. 

A small chuckle made his chest vibrate against her breasts, and she could feel, her nipples hardened by the contact. 

Swallowing, she closed her eyes. _Maybe it would be easier, if she pretended he was some nameless, faceless wizard. Just someone she didn’t know, a stranger._

“But I’m not,” he whispered, leaning in, licking her earlobe with his tongue. “I’m Lord Voldemort, and you know it.” 

Opening her eyes, she grimaced. He was grinning, the smile looking so out of place on that strange, inhuman face right in front of her, his slitted nostrils flaring, like he was scenting her. But in his eyes there was real mirth, albeith of the wicked kind. 

“Oh, I know,” she huffed. “It’s not like you’ll let me forget, is there?” 

“No,” he said, a small smile still on his lips. “I won’t.” 

And then, she was assaulted again, his magic curling around her own, making her short of breath, almost dizzy in the hot, steaming water. Their powers were entwining, circling one another, and she barely registered that her feet left the bottom of the tub, her body floating upwards. 

Her magic was pulsating, flaring up in a deep, golden-shimmering purple colour to meet the brilliance of his inky darkness, making her heart hammer, and she wet her lips, overwhelmed by the ache in her magic - an ache to be filled, taken, to mate with his power and… 

His expression had lost that amusement now, red eyes watching her with a mounting intensity, mouth almost slack-jawed, and with a small snarl, he hooked her thighs around him, making her _sit_ on top of the water, the tip of his cock brushing against her sex. 

Then he struck, his magic entering hers, as he buried his cock deep inside her. 

The stretch was glorious, body and mind being filled simultaneously, accommodating him, his magic searing her, her own power aflame, burning at his touch, as his thick cock slid through her slick flesh. Holding on to his shoulders for dear life, she gasped, _letting_ the pleasure in for the first time, instead of it _taking_ her. Her breasts slid against his torso, nipples tingling against his skin, as he moved her up and down on his member. It felt like everything was wet, slick, and vaguely, she wondered if it was all her, or if the water helped. Her sex clenched around him, squeezing him into broken grunts, and his hands gripped her waist hard. 

Blood thrummed in her veins, a rushing sound engulfed her, waves building up, and she was borne higher - higher - higher to an an impossible peak, a voice was keening, moaning, and it was _her,_ and it was _him,_ and _together,_ they rushed down into the abyss of ecstasy, shards of darkness splintering with embers of flying gold, merging, glittering as they pulsed together. She was writhing on his cock, those ridges and veins on the steel hardness inside her pulling trembles out of her, and he breathed harshly, pumping his seed into her convulsing pussy. 

“This, little witch, this is the joining of body, soul and mind, renewing the ritual over and over,” he murmured, still holding her tight against him. 

Gasping, she nodded, too tired and overwhelmed to do anything but resting her head against his broad, hard chest. 

For a few moments, she let herself enjoy the afterglow, the pleasant ache where he still filled her, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat slowing. 

Then she squirmed, making him release her to slide down into the steaming water again. 

“I want to go to Hogsmeade,” she said breathlessly. “I want to go to Diagon Alley too. I want to be able to buy my own books. I want more freedom to move around.” 

Voldemort took a step back, towering over her, his stance menacing, but something around his eyes crinkled, like he was secretly amused by her demands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my opinion, Hermione and Voldemort has one thing in common: An insatiable thirst for magical knowledge. That's their true common ground, and I'm willing to believe they would talk about magic at *length*.


	11. Undermined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wild, primeval magic, backed by her new, ritual-induced strength, would stop at nothing to keep her baby safe. To keep Voldemort’s baby safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long one for you, as my updating schedule has fizzled out. Sorry about that, but you know, IRL... Stay safe, these days are strange times.

“So, you agree with me on the pink curtains for the dining room, then?” Perenella Avery was jotting down her notes in her charmed wedding planner, and Hermione nodded, perhaps a little more feebly than she had intended. 

Together with Perenella, she had scoured Hogsmeade’s shops for cutlery, linens and fabrics for what felt like _hours,_ while keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Now, they were sitting in a window seat at Madam Puddifot’s Tea Shop, having cream tea as Perenella made her last minute decisions. 

Hermione could only _imagine_ how Snape would feel about his soon-to-be pink curtains. He’d be overwhelmed and out of place in a house filled with frilly, pink things, his somber black standing out like an ill-fitting shadow, while his pretty wife would do her best to overrule his every household opinion. _Snape wouldn’t want to stay in that house for a minute longer than necessary, maybe not even long enough to Transfigure the curtains into something more of his liking._

“Oh, wonderful,” Perenella gushed. “It’s going to be so cosy.” She put her notebook away, and leaned back in her chair, beaming at Hermione. 

Hermione smiled back, relieved to not talk about curtains anymore - _for that matter, she’d rather not talk about curtains for the rest of her life_ \- but Perenella’s choice of _pink_ had piqued her interest. The woman _had_ to know that pastels would not go over well with the Headmaster. _Why did she insist on decorating in a way that her betrothed would positively hate? How well did they really know each other?_

The tea room was pink too, and more than half-full with chattering witches and wizards, most of them elderly, probably in retirement, and none of them seemed even remotely interested in Hermione and Perenella. It was also a tad too warm, making drops of sweat bead at Hermione’s nape, even though she had tied her curls into a pony-tail. _Pregnancy could do that_ , she had read, _making your body temperature rise somewhat._

“So,” she asked, “how did you and Professor Snape meet? I mean, you met in school, obviously, but…” 

“Oh,” the pretty young witch grinned, “you mean how we met after school? Well, there isn’t much to tell, really. I saw him at a few functions, you know, when the Dark Lord threw parties. _Real_ parties, not those revels of his, but we never really spoke. He is sort of grumpy.” 

Hermione had to smile. “I don’t think anyone would disagree,” she said, “he is, well… Professor Snape.” 

“Exactly.” Perenella sipped her tea, filled to the brim with milk and sugar, before her eyes locked on Hermione. 

Suddenly, she could see the Slytherin in the woman in front of her, as a calculating look flitted over her angelic face. Apparently, Perenella had come to a decision, and she leaned forward, taking Hermione’s hand. “You must know, I needed to secure a husband. I wanted a man on the rise, someone powerful, and who could be more respected than the Headmaster, the Dark Lord’s right hand man? Every Pure-blood girl knows that your marriage defines who you are in society. Being Severus’ wife will open every door for me. I can do whatever I want, and no one can put me down, as long as he keeps his position.” 

With a hint of steel in her eyes, the girl added: “And he will keep it, earning our Lord’s favour, I’ll make sure of it.” 

Hermione blinked, before her eyes narrowed. _There was obviously more to Perenella than she had thought - somewhere, behind all the frippery and silliness, there was a plan. This girl wanted to achieve something._

Those big, green eyes gauged Hermione’s reaction, before the redhead let out a small laugh. “Oh, but you know, don’t you, even if your parents were … Who am I kidding, the girl who went for the Dark Lord himself _would_ be the first to understand why I wanted a position in society, am I right?” 

Sipping her own black tea, Hermione merely nodded. _Merlin, she had to try to own this. Being a power hungry, scheming … slut... - that was the only word that came to mind - would be what people expected of her these days._

Cocking her head at Perenella, she said sweetly: “I do understand. However, I’m not sure I know enough about Pure-blood culture to understand what I could expect from the Dark Lord in this situation. He’s … you know, so very much _him_.” 

Perenella’s green eyes flashed with something like a hunger for power, and she replied: “Oh, you know, I could always give you some pointers. Later, you could maybe help me, return a few favours to me, asking the Dark Lord for…” A small, false laugh left her lips, as her eyes lowered demurely, before she continued: 

“Well, nevermind, for starters, you need to make him acknowledge you in public. I mean, he needs to go with you somewhere public, the two of you together, to show that this is more than those statements to the Prophet. You are, after all, carrying his child, and you’re entitled to special treatment from everyone - and him.” 

Her expression was an odd mixture of earnestness and smugness, like she _wanted_ Hermione to know these things, but was equally smug that she could provide this knowledge. Pouting slightly, she continued: “Plus, if you were a Pure-blood and not a … well, you-know-what, he’d be forced to marry you, just like Severus had to marry me. Still, it’s unheard of, not taking his responsibility to make an honest witch out of you. Though, as you say, he’s the Dark Lord. He might do things differently. No matter, you should at least demand that he makes other people bow to you.” 

“I should make demands to _him,_ ” Hermione said sceptically. 

“Yes!” Perenella nodded eagerly. “He would expect that from you, if you were a Pure-blood. Don’t demean yourself, just because you’re a … well, you know.” Taking a dainty bite from a chocolate eclair, she shrugged. “By the way, do you mind if I owl you some samples of fabric from my dress? I feel like you really understand these things, and I would like your opinion...”

Hermione hid her groan by taking a big gulp of tea. 

  


Xxxx

  


“Put on your robes.” His voice was a sibilant hiss behind her, and he enjoyed how she tried to hide her flinch. Her confusion was evident in her thoughts, and she wondered if she wouldn’t be required to take her clothes off tonight. _Oh, well, he wouldn't promise that, but for now…_

It had only been a day since his last visit, but tonight, he’d teach her defensive dueling. To be honest, he looked forward to testing the limits of her magic. _It was always prudent to check what your foes and allies could throw at you to avoid unpleasant surprises - and to gauge their usefulness._

The girl rose from her reading chair, donning her robe from a peg on the wall by the door, staring expectantly at him. 

Voldemort furrowed his brow. Curtly, he said: “You need new clothes. This … won’t do.” 

_After he had installed her at Hogwarts, he had barely seen her with clothes on. Her robe was tattered, frayed around the edges, and she wore Muggle jeans, of all things, and a sweater. That was all very well for someone traipsing around the forest with Potter, but not what Lord Voldermort’s chosen witch should wear. While he had shot down her request to roam freely around in Diagon Alley, granting only the relative safety of Hogsmeade, he would speak to Severus to send her with a suitable chaperone to Twilfitt and Tattings._

The little witch shrugged, not looking excited with the prospect of new clothes like most witches, and said indifferently: “”They’re serviceable. Besides, I don’t have that much money.” 

“I’ll see to it,” he said shortly. 

For a moment, she looked baffled. “Are _you_ going to buy me clothes?” 

“Paying for them, yes,” he said irritably. _He had never spent money on someone but himself before, but this - really - she couldn’t go around looking like this. It would reflect badly on him. Therefore, it was an investment in his reputation - not a service to her._

Nodding briskly, satisfied with his inner arguments, he opened the window, extending his arm to her. 

Eyes wide, she looked with uncertainty from him to the window. “Are we… flying?” she asked. 

Voldemort nodded. 

“I’m not a good flier,” she said sheepishly, gesturing to the empty broom rack by the door. “I don’t even have a broomstick.” 

Voldemort shrugged. “You won’t need one, tonight.” 

The girl paled, taking a small step back. 

_Oh come on, he didn’t have all night._ He lunged for her, grabbing her, as a loud squeak escaped her, before whispering _“Volo”_ into her hair - and they were off. 

  


Xxxx

  


The flight was awful, fantastic, wild and hair-raising at the same time. The dizzying feel of being airborne, with nothing to cling to except _him,_ was mind blowing in more than one way. Goosebumps raced across her skin, leaving her breathless, terrified and excited at the same time. The idea that _he,_ of all people should be her anchor, her safeline, was hilarious, preposterous even, as if he ever would keep her safe. At the same time, the wind howling in her hair as they hurtled through the air, seeing the landscape like a blur of glittering lights underneath made her feel strangely exhilarated. 

As they alighted on a moor, somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, she was almost disappointed. 

“You took a liking to flying,” he said, that infuriating amusement glittering in his red eyes, and she had to nod. _Because he’d know if she lied, wouldn’t he?_

“I did,” she admitted. “This was nothing like brooms or Thestrals.” 

Voldemort merely smiled, eyes flickering over her, before he said lazily: “Show me the proper dueling stance.” 

Suddenly, her mouth felt dry. _Did he mean to duel her? Inside her, fear and excitement warred. One part of her almost screamed in terror: I can’t duel Lord Voldemort! But that part of her that loved knowledge above all, purred: Oh, you can learn so much from him, he’s the best duelist there is._

No matter how she felt about it, he had brought her here. _And chances were, he’d do what he had planned, no matter her feelings._ Swallowing down her worries, she raised her wand, positioning her body slightly sideways to make herself a smaller target, forcing herself to be relaxed even as her muscles tensed in the anticipation of action. 

“No,” he said, looking displeased, “this won't do at all.” 

Hermione furrowed her brow. _She had been one of the best in Defense, hadn’t she, and she had seen plenty of action since? She couldn’t be that bad!_

“What do you mean?” 

Voldemort sighed, pinching the flesh where the bridge of his nose should have been. “You are lacking, that much is obvious. Have you never exercised your body, trained your muscles? You will not be able to hold that stance for long, and that will make for sloppy dueling.” 

Gaping, she stared at him. “Exercising? Why would I need that?” 

Voldemort muttered: “I suppose I should be thankful to Dumbledore’s antiquated ideas, making my takeover this much easier, but this means there are generations that haven’t the proper groundwork. Oh well.” 

“What about him? What about Dumbledore?” She felt herself bristling. _Like Voldemort deserved to even talk about Dumbledore…!_

The tall wizard in front of her said curtly: “To be a successful duelist, you need physical strength, endurance and flexibility. That means, you can’t rely on the strength of your magic only, if you are to throw both your mind and your body into your spellwork. Dueling is a very physical experience, your movements merging magic and body. I can assure you, Dumbledore knew this very well, practising this himself, but he never bothered to set a training regime for the students. The old goat merely thought that those who had a talent for duelling would also - by themselves - be physically active.” 

Hermione blinked. Then a slow fury started to simmer, red hot licks of flame curling in her stomach. _Why had_ ** _no one_** _told her something this vital?_ _It was unfair, she had been held at a disadvantage, because someone had withheld information from her! She could have been better, she could have… If she had been told that physical strength mattered!_

Whispering harshly, her voice sounded like a croak: “Harry…! That’s the secret? Being _fucking_ physically active? And I never knew…!” 

“I beg your pardon?” Voldemort looked surprised at her mention of Harry, but Hermione hissed, mostly to herself: “He was alway better than me in Defense. Had I known I should pay more attention to working out, I could have been best in that class too! It would have been so _easy_!” 

Voldemort grinned, looking oddly pleased by her outburst, like he enjoyed her vindictiveness. “Well, as you must see, for a witch, it’s even more important to exercise, because wizards do have some advantages in that respect.” 

She pinched her lips, still feeling so _riled_ that someone had neglected to tell her she should be working out. _The “Exceeds Expectations” in her Defense OWL still smarted, and if only…!_

Closing her eyes, she tried to compose herself, breathing deeply through her nose, forcing her anger down. 

He gave her an assessing look, sizing her up, but not in the usual way. This time, there was no leer, more as if he assessed her fitness, in a purely academic, no-nonsense way. Then he said, reluctantly: “The pregnancy… You can’t work out like you should be. You’ll have to wait, but still, walking or running should keep you fit.” 

Hermione stilled. _Did he actually mean for her to become better at dueling? Why?_

For a moment, the silence was uncomfortable, and then Voldemort sneered. 

“Now, we must begin with your stance. Straighten your shoulders, use the muscles in your stomach to center yourself, and…” 

  


Xxxx

“There.” Voldemort nodded to himself in satisfaction, silently congratulating himself on another fine piece of magic. His Horcrux was shimmering behind a web of magic, visible only to himself, and the low hum of high-level magic was masked expertly. 

He had taken quite some time in deliberating where to hide it, but in the end, he decided to keep it close to himself. Thanks to Potter, he had lost the diary, the locket and the cup, and Dumbledore had finished his ring. Therefore, it was vital to protect the diadem - and Nagini. 

Pleased with himself, he whistled tunelessly, admiring his work. Stretching his shoulders and arms, cracking his knuckles, he also enjoyed the remnant of the afterglow after tonight’s debauchery. _Because that’s what it was. Taking Granger was still surprisingly good, her tight little body, hot pussy and lovely tits still excited him. Speaking of her tits … had they gotten bigger these last weeks due to her pregnancy?_

He shook himself. _He wasn’t a randy teenager, for Merlin’s sake. He was Lord Voldemort, an adult wizard in his prime, and he shouldn’t be daydreaming about a witch, no matter how deliciously she took his cock and his magic._

Sighing, he sat down in front of the fireplace, the flames dancing to keep Nagini warm. His pet slithered to him, resting her snout on his knee, tongue flicking out, questioning. 

“Yes, my dear,” he murmured. “Everything is going to plan. The Ministry’s mine, and I hold the power in the wizarding world. The resistance, that dratted Order is broken. People believe in me, now, and the girl’s helping to shore up my new image. Soon, I’ll hold all power, and then we can do as we please, fully.” 

With a hiss, the snake replied to him, and he chuckled. “Meet her? Oh, maybe you will. I must be seen with her in public. Maybe I should bring her here. She’ll have no idea what you are, or where the diadem is hidden.” 

  
  


Xxxx

  


“What are you waiting for?” She stared at Harry and Ron, but the boys just looked sullenly away. “Come on, this spell is really useful. Try it!” 

“What if it’s not?” Ron said, his tone a tad belligerent, swivelling his head too fast towards her. Harry still stared at the paint-flaked wall in the Shrieking Shack, like it was very much of interest, still pinching his lips into a frown, oddly reminiscent of McGonagall. 

“It is,” she sighed, exasperated. “It _is_ , I tested it. I mean, he sent Curse after Hex after Jinx against me, and the Shield held!” 

“ _He_ .” Harry’s voice was a harsh croak, and Hermione almost rolled her eyes. _How was it possible to set such double standards? They wanted her to get closer to Voldermort, didn’t they? Now, she could teach them something dead useful, and they didn’t trust her?_

“Yes. _Him_. You know, the one you actually want me to spend time with. The one you want me to spy on.” 

“How do you know he wasn’t tricking you? This Shield of his, it could unravel at an opportune moment, he could have adjusted the strength of his casting, he could…”

“Sod it, Harry, don’t you think I know the difference between a fudged _Relashio_ and a real one? Or a fake _Bombarda_ or a _Confringo?_ Do you think I’m not observing every damned thing he does, especially when You-Know-Who points his goddamned wand at me? I tell you, this damned Shield works!” 

She felt like her eyes were blazing with righteous fury, but still the boys weren’t convinced. Harry and Ron looked at each other, before Ron slowly shook his head. 

Breathing hard, she remembered the sheer terror coursing through her, when she realized that Voldemort wasn’t only to teach her the spell, he was actually going to make her perform it - against himself. 

_Facing the darkest wizard known to Britain as he proceeded to cast against her had been daunting. But though her Shield had wavered at times in the barrage of spells he threw at her, it had held, like a shimmering dome around her, flashing blue, red and yellow as his curses hit it. She threw all of her strength into it, straining her magic to keep at bay, sweat ran in rivulets down her spine, her heart hammered, as her breath came in great, gasping gulps._

_And suddenly, she understood why being fit was vital to dueling. She had never experienced this level of magical exertion, because no one in class had ever challenged her magic like this._ **_This…_ ** _was something else._

_In the end, Voldemort had nodded at her, looking satisfied. “You mastered this quickly,” he said, voice husky and low. “At the last one, I didn’t hold back.”_

_Her eyes became round with surprise, and her breath had almost whistled out between her pursed lips. “You didn’t hold back,” she repeated, mind reeling by the fact that she had held Lord Voldemort at bay._

_“Yes.” His voice was a sibilant caress, and he moved closer to her. “I’m not going to hold back now, either.”_

_Flushing, she remembered how he had backed her up to a large rock, seating her on it by lifting her effortlessly up, hiking up her robes before Divesting her of her jeans and knickers. Rough hands had spread her legs, before long fingers had found her pussy, spreading her lips apart, smearing the surprising amount of slick on his fingers, coating her clit as he rubbed her._

_In no time, she was gasping and trembling against his fingers, as his magic reared up against her own, striking into her as he plunged two fingers inside her soaking slit. Grunting by the impact, she clenched around those fingers, rotating her hips, writhing against the thumb on her clit, before he withdrew with a snarl, replacing his fingers with the big, weeping cock he fisted slowly once - twice - before ramming it into her. Yelping by the sudden fullness, her own voice, hoarse, almost whiny, begged him to touch her clit, and as he did, she shivered, clenched hard, and came around Voldemort’s big cock with a whining sound deep in her throat, as stars flashed behind her eyes, guilt churning in her guts. He had followed with a grunt, panting harshly above her._

“Hermione?” Harry’s voice was stiff and disapproving. “Are you with us, or did you just … zone out? Please, you didn’t think about him just now, did you? You looked so … dreamy.”

Her cheeks flaming, she stared angrily at Harry. _They wouldn’t believe her, and now they would call her out on … on … this, which they knew was her greatest shame and despair?_

Clearing her throat, she opted to _not_ tell them about Snape’s wedding. It felt petty, true, but then again, she couldn’t see what Harry and Ron would do with that information. They could hardly attack Voldemort in the middle of a crowd. 

Instead, she told them about the connection between physical prowess and duelling. Harry looked surprised, but Ron shrugged indifferently. “I knew that. Everyone knows, right?” 

Eyes flashing, she turned on him. “What the hell, Ronald? How did you know? Why didn’t you _tell_ us? We didn’t know, we could have been better and more powerful!” 

“Yes,” Harry chimed in, looking irritated. “You know, I might have actually done a few of those laps around the grounds, instead of tricking Oliver into believing I was working out. You told me it didn’t matter! I could have become a better dueller and a Quidditch player!” 

Ron blinked. “Sorry mate, I thought you knew.” He smiled awkwardly at Harry. 

Their friend just rolled his eyes, puffing out an exasperated “ _Ron_ , really?”

Scowling, Hermione noted, the apology went to Harry. _Not to her. Not to her at all._

  


Xxxx

  


As she knocked on the door at the Infirmary, Professor McGonagall came swooping up to her, standing beside her with a look on her face, like she smelled something bad. Hermione was to visit Madam Pomfrey for her three month check-up, and she threw a puzzled glance at McGonagall, having no idea why her Professor had suddenly decided to join her. 

A gaggle of tiny first-year Hufflepuffs walked by, staring at the two of them, whispering amongst themselves. 

Haughtily, her Professor stated in a loud voice: “I’ll serve as your guardian. No matter how errant your behaviour is, you’re still a former student of mine.” 

As the Hufflepuffs turned around the corner, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth: “Poppy is very upset by your pregnancy. She believes that you are voluntarily in this situation, and she’s very … disappointed in you. Poppy had such high thoughts of you, you know, like we all had.” 

Hermione swallowed. ‘ _Like they all had’ - past tense. Because she wasn’t the Golden Girl of Gryffindor now, she was something else. Voldemort’s lover. Or whore. Mother of his child, hated by everyone._ The mediwitch had always been so kind to her, and Hermione had gotten to know her quite well, staying in the Infirmary for a long time in her second year, when she had accidentally turned furry, and again after when she was hit by Dolohov’s curse. 

McGonagall had a faraway look in her eyes, pain flitting across her features, before she sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, because this isn’t my story to tell, but… Poppy’s little sister, only sixteen at the time, was caught and brutally raped by several Death Eaters in the last war, before she was killed in a ritual by You-Know-Who himself. She considers your situation as a personal betrayal. I can’t impress this enough, but she is very angry with you. I’m here to stop her, if she makes a scene. I don’t _think_ she’ll hex you, but you never know. My advice is, you’d better avoid being hexed by a mediwitch. They know where to hurt you.” 

Sucking in a breath, Hermione almost felt her eyes sting. _Poor Madam Pomfrey. She could understand the anger, the sorrow and despair, and how helpless one could feel when one's family and friends were hurt. That’s why she had sent her parents away last year too, to avoid putting them in danger. And now, such anger could be directed at herself, and Hermione would have to play along. There was no telling Madam Pomfrey the truth of the matter._

Straightening herself, Hermione whispered: “Thank you.” She gave McGonagall a weak smile. The old witch winked at her, but her face quickly turned blank as Madam Pomfrey opened the door. 

“Good afternoon,” the mediwitch said frostily, her plump lips curling into a sneer as she looked at Hermione. “Let’s get you inside, so we can examine this … _bastard_ … of yours.” 

The Infirmary was blessedly quiet and empty, the sunlight throwing coloured patterns across the floor from the mullioned windows, and the familiar sharp, crisp smell of clean sheets and Disinfectant potions permeated the air. 

“Lay down,” Madam Pompfrey curtly said to her, before she frowned at McGonagall. “What can I do for you, Minerva?” 

“Oh, just here to see check up on Miss Granger, to see how she fares, if there is any _news_ as to her condition,” McGonagall said, while winking at the mediwitch. 

“Indeed,” Madam Pomfrey said, raising her eyebrows at the other witch, a small smirk on her normally pleasant face. 

Hermione almost snorted. If McGonagall actually had been spying on her for the Order, this would be the equivalent of putting up a sign. A sign screaming of careless, sloppy spying. 

As Madam Pomfrey turned to look at Hermione, she scowled. “You stay still and quiet, girl, and we’ll see how your brat’s doing.” At a muttered spell, the air above Hermione’s stomach crackled dangerously, and a multitude of colours sprang into existence with a menacing hum like a hundred angry bees. The lights swirled and spun, green, golden, silvery and red, swelling and shrinking, like waves on the ocean. 

“Poppy…” McGonagall said, a warning in her voice, and Hermione gasped, suddenly finding herself holding her hands protectively over her stomach, her right hand clutching her wand hard. _No one would hurt her baby. No one. She’d do anything to protect her baby, even …_ That thought sputtered out like a dying flame, but she glared at the mediwitch. 

The woman huffed, before saying: “I’m not doing anything to produce that,” pointing at the writhing mess of lights above Hermione. Muttering to herself, she said: “It’s the baby’s magic, responding to the spell. This is going to be one hell of a wizard, mark my words. There’s no doubt that You-Know-Who fathered this babe, because I can’t see who else’s offspring would become this strong. Never seen a reaction like this.” 

“Oh,” McGonagall said weakly. “It’s a strong baby?” 

“I’m afraid so,” the mediwitch grumbled. “This babe already has enough magic to best most of your fourth years, Minerva. It’s raw, of course, but there’s a lot of potential.” 

But Hermione was only able to focus on one thing. “It’s a boy?” she asked, staring with wonder at the tiny swell on her stomach. _Inside her, an overwhelming, protective feeling swelled, bringing tears into her eyes. Oh, little one, my baby, my baby boy, my son, I’m here. Mama’s here, I’m on your side, I’ll take care of you, you and me, forever…._ It was as if this, this almost solid mass of lights and the knowledge that it wasn’t just a foetus, but an actual, small boy, made the child _real_ for the first time. _A real baby. A small human, demanding her care and love, and she’d willingly give it, for the rest of her life._

“I just told you, didn’t I?” the mediwitch drawled, a steely glint in her eyes. “Did you lose your hearing along with your wits? This baby is, unfortunately, strong, healthy and powerful.” 

A flicker of hatred transformed Madam Pomfrey’s kind face into something ugly and terrifying. Narrowing her eyes, she spat: “It’s so much more than _you_ deserve. You, and that… that…. _lover_ of yours, the two of you deserve… _nothing_ . A Squib, or rather no child at all. People like you and him shouldn’t be allowed to procreate. This child shouldn’t _be_.”

Suddenly, something snapped inside her. _No one was to talk like that about her baby boy!_

Swiftly, she sat up, and without any conscious decision on her part, her wand point was jutting into Madam Pompfrey’s chin. Hermione snarled: “You shut up and do your job. Don’t talk like that about my child, or I swear, you’ll regret it.” 

She felt her magic swirl around them, gathering, towering over them like a looming tornado, and the air felt like it was charged with power, her skin prickling with the force of her magic. 

Evidently, the two witches felt it too. McGonagall sucked in an audible breath, eyes wide, but Madam Pomfrey stepped back, looking momentarily frightened, before she said, still defiantly: “Look at _that_ , Minerva. She’s threatening me with You-Know-Who, isn’t she? If I insult her little Ladyship’s tender sensibilities, she’ll run to her big bad _boyfriend_ , won’t she?” 

With a snort, Hermione rose from the hospital bed. _Like she couldn’t attack on her own? Like she was helpless without Voldemort to back her up? How little Madam Pomfrey knew._

Haughtily, she said: “I can manage quite well, thank you very much. I don’t need help hexing the likes of you, Madam Pomfrey.” Bluish flames danced at the tip of her wand, hissing and sputtering, like it was angry, like she was readying herself to cast curses, to attack the short mediwitch, like her magic was flaring out of control, with the burning need to protect her baby, wild magic dancing on the edge of her control. _This kind of magic protected Harry against Voldemort,_ she suddenly realized. _This wild, primeval magic, backed by her new, ritual-induced strength, would stop at nothing to keep her baby safe. To keep Voldemort’s baby safe._

At that, her stomach twisted, turning sour. _Voldemort had, indeed, insidiously secured her loyalty_ . _By her maternal bond to his son, she’d do anything to keep his line safe, to protect his heir, wielding her magic as a powerful tool to anyone who’d threaten her child. She might not be loyal to Voldemort himself, but with a sickening finality, she knew she now had an unquestionable loyalty to Slytherin’s line. Voldemort had, in all probability, known this all along. He had tricked her, making sure she’d be there to protect his heir, no matter if he lost or won the war. The biological and magical bond between mother and child had been a tool for him to secure his line’s survival._

Bile burned in her throat _,_ and anger simmered in her stomach. _Anger at herself, for not taking the pregnancy seriously enough. She had avoided it, reading as little about pregnancies as possible, and while she theoretically knew parents usually loved their child, she hadn’t been prepared for the reality of it, the overwhelming feeling of love, the surge of protectiveness and care above all else. She had been fooled by her own ignorance. How could she sink so low? This… would change everything._

Gritting her teeth, she also realized this was another opportunity to play along, cementing her reputation as loyal to Voldemort, living the lie she had agreed to. Checking herself, she deliberately, slowly, sheathed her wand, securing it in her wand holster. 

Playing along, she let a sinister smile grace her lips: “But of course, he won’t be happy to hear about you wanting his son dead.” 

The worry on Madam Pomfrey’s face _was_ sort of satisfying, but there was an ice-cold trickle of dread as she saw McGonagall’s face. _Hermione might just have alienated another ally. Not so much with her words, as with her sudden display of wild, untamed power._


	12. Underthrust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh,” she said, her hands dropping suddenly. Slytherin’s wife… A family heirloom. He was showing her respect, then, honouring her tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe, everyone!

A surge of happiness surged through him, making him grin, unexpected and widely, making his magic flex and curl, filling the room with a throbbing energy. 

Lucius started, looking truly frightened, stepping back a few metres in haste. Bella and her sister looked confused, while Antonin just blinked. Snape however, looked unflappable. 

They were gathered in the elegant drawing room at Malfoy manor. Narcissa was serving fragrant, black tea from a large, gilded pot, steam wafting deliciously from the spout, and delicate cakes and confectionery were sitting in a tiered stand carved out of sheer, true dragon bone. Narcissa’s hands trembled as she continued to pour tea into the dainty cups, the saucers rattling slightly in her hands, but her aristocratic features were smooth and blank, like always. 

_The emotion wasn’t his. It had come through the bond he shared with the baby, making it possible for him to monitor its wellbeing, and he couldn’t help wondering: What on earth could make a foetus feel anything remotely resembling happiness? The surge had been exceptionally strong, like a wild signal flare in a dark sky, and the powerful rush was … intoxicating._

Voldemort shook his head, trying to clear the remnants of that bright, cheery feeling from his mind. _Whatever had happened, it had been strong enough to affect him too. Was the foetus becoming sentient? He realized, for all his knowledge and experience, he had no idea how a foetus developed. It wouldn’t do, if he was to be subjected to random emotions from his child. Potter’s mess of an inner life was more than enough to handle. Speaking of that, Potter had been rather dull lately. Dissatisfied, grumpy, almost._

His followers stared at him, trying to gauge why his mood had shifted. Lucius still looked nervous, but he drew himself up, preparing to continue his iterations of the event plan. 

Voldemort nodded indulgently for him to go on, feigning indifference. _The wedding was an important piece in distracting the public, intended to make them all moon over the prospects of love and marriage, the glitter of high society, wizarding celebrities on display as well as the opulent wealth of his rule. While the public was busy discussing dresses and love interests of people they didn’t know, he would make a few, necessary changes to wizarding law: Limiting the influence of the Wizengamot on jurisdiction, strengthening the Minister, laying the foundations for the position of the Minister, or rather the ruler, to be a non-elective position._

Then Severus sighed, dramatically. “Lucius, I _don’t_ think we need to provide entertainment at my wedding,” he drawled. “There are more than a thousand invited, all they can do is drink, eat, talk and fuck in the corners. It’s going to be a bloody … festival. We do _not_ need to top off with Christina Warbeck.” 

Grimacing, Severus grumbled into his tea as he took a sip: “I don’t even _like_ Warbeck’s music.” 

Voldemort felt himself grin again, his mood still inordinately good. _Everyone knew very well that Severus hated Warbeck, and Voldemort remembered vividly how the man blatantly had hexed the singer at a party in 1979. With a rather flashy bang, her throat had been disfigured, swollen, and everyone had seen the perpetrator, the thin, drunk young man in the middle of the crowd, swaying on his feet, brandishing his wand as he grinned. It had been a major scandal, and Voldemort had had to pull a lot of strings to clear Severus of the charges. The singer’s voice had been reduced to a squeak for months, but Severus had only remarked with a straight face: “I hear no difference.”_

Lucius rolled his eyes, saying exasperatedly: “I _know,_ Severus, but your taste can’t run this event. What, having that Squib band that you enjoy would scare people off the premises in no time.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with Black Sabbath,” Severus said defensively, but then he shrugged. “Lucius, I’m not suggesting we’re getting them, but… Warbeck? Can’t we just have an orchestra, playing classical wizarding composers like Beethoven and Brahms?” 

“And we will,” Lucious said stubbornly, “but we need something more popular too. For the younger crowd. Your betrothed seemed to like the idea of Warbeck.” 

Bella was enjoying herself, he could tell, leaning back in her chair, nibbling on a sugared violet adorning a chocolate eclair. Antonin looked bored to death, and Narcissa was sitting ramrod straight, feigning interest with a polite smile, listening to her husband bickering with his best friend. 

Severus scowled, his dour face looking like a thundercloud. The tea in his cup sloshed ominously as he put it down with a louder-than-polite bang. “Warbeck isn’t for the _young_ , Lucius, Warbeck is for people a decade older than _us.”_

Voldemort couldn’t help snorting. _Severus was right, because Warbeck reminded him much of popular music in the sixties. He had never cared for her music, personally, preferring the classical composers._

Everyone stilled again, looking at him nervously, and Lucius said diffidently: “Will you help us decide, my Lord?” 

He shrugged. “Severus, what do the young people like nowadays? Your students, for instance?”

The man grimaced again, pinching the bridge of his overly large nose. In the end, he said: “The Weird Sisters. The Hobgoblins. Not that I want any of them in my wedding, mind. But at least, they’re better than _Warbeck.”_

“Let’s make it a small concert,” Voldemort suggested, knowing very well that his word was law, just as it should be. “Let’s bring on a selection of singers and bands, I’m sure your coiffers will allow it, Lucius.”

The blonde man fidgeted, like he wanted to say something, but decided wisely against it. 

Voldemort continued, with a gracious nod at Severus - _the man had been pushed quite far into agreeing to the wedding, there was no need to torture him further at this point: “_ But as it _is_ Severus’ wedding, let’s humour him. No Warbeck. Besides, she may not be that eager to sing for him again, considering what happened last time.” 

xxxx

Narcissa Malfoy had looked down her nose at her from the moment she arrived at Malfoy manor. Having never been here, Hermione was awed by the grandeur of the Malfoy home, but she tried to hide it as best she could. _At the very least, the snotty Malfoys shouldn’t be able to pin it upon her that she was a gawking Muggleborn, amazed by what had to be the utmost wizarding luxury._

The house was vast, built with old, green sandstone, and the gardens surrounding it was immaculate, with trimmed trees and bushes, burgeoning flower beds, marble statues of magical creatures sprinkled throughout, as well as several ponds and fountains. It was just as luxurious on the inside, and as she trailed after the haughty matriarch, she took covert glances at the marble floor, the impossible height of the roof in the hall, the grand, ornamented staircase, the thick, spider-silk tapestries and the ancestral portraits of long-dead Malfoys. 

Hermione was sure, the blonde witch had been relieved to leave her in the hands of a capable, but surly House-elf.

Voldemort hadn’t granted her free access to Diagon Alley, but he did sanction a chaperoned visit for her to buy clothes, including a dress for Severus’ wedding as well as a few hours in Flourish and Blotts. Perenella Avery had been pelting her with owls, giving fashion advice for her great shopping trip as well as reports from the witch’s own trip to Paris. 

_The experience of being followed around in Diagon Alley had been nightmarish, with snide comments and bored huffing from Alecto Carrow, the handpicked chaperone, throughout the trip. The woman had been breathing down her neck the entire visit to Flourish and Blotts: “Really, girl, you’re supposed to buy the books, not read them at the bookstore.” Or: “Come on, you can’t possibly think you, an unfinished student, will understand higher, theoretical magic like that? I’m sorry to say, this is not for the likes of you, little Mudblood. You should rather buy “How To Understand Pure-blood Traditions: A Guide For The Ignorant Lower Classes.”_

_Hermione had tried to ignore her, knowing very well that attacking a Hogwarts teacher - nevermind that woman was incompetent - would be asking for punishment. Normally, such a thing would be expulsion, but as it was, Snape would probably be forced to deny her the opportunity to take her NEWTS next week. But after an hour, she cracked. Still, she waited, until she had her perfect chance. As they passed a section with books on love potions, Hermione silently Jinxed a book into following Alecto, bumping into her, stroking against the woman and generally making a nuisance of itself._

_“What’s this?” Alecto Carrow snarled, batting the book away. Several customers stopped to stare at the spectacle, while an employee rushed towards them._

_“Seems like it likes you,” Hermione mumbled. Squinting at it, like she hadn’t already chosen the title especially for this, she read the title aloud in a high, clear voice: “Your Friend In Need: How To Make The Unlovable Lovable.”_

_Carrow had reddened to an ugly puce shade, and she blasted the poor book to smithereens._

_“Now, really!” the bookstore employee said affronted. “I must ask you to leave. This kind of behaviour isn’t acceptable at all!” He swished his wand at the dark witch, activating what Hermione recognized as a spell for property holders to expel anyone from their grounds, and Carrow was dragged outside, kicking her legs to no avail._

_Thus, Hermione got alone-time in the bookstore, while the Death Eater waited outside, seething angrily, unable to return._

_Buying clothes had been much easier at the posh Twilfitt and Tattings, as the shopkeeper obviously had received instructions beforehand as to what kind of dress Hermione was supposed to choose, and what kind of clothes she was to be fitted into._

_Carrow grumbled in the background, while the the owner had smiled sycophantically at her, telling her she could choose between robes in black silk, black silk and … black silk. For her shirts, skirts and trousers she got more options, being allowed to choose between various shades of green, grey and blue. There were no pastel colours, and no yellow or red._

Now, one of the Malfoys’ House-elves was dressing her, in her pretty black silk dress with a generous square-cut cleavage, hugging her breasts, before doing her hair up with ringlets trailing over her shoulders. The elf didn’t want to tell Hermione her name, just glowering sullenly at her with those big, green orbs, and she couldn’t help feeling somewhat… insulted. _Like the House-elf should know she was on it’s side. Like it should, at least, be friendly towards her._

She supposed, she had been installed in a guest room, perhaps even into one of the better ones. It was freakishly large, with a gigantic four-poster bed carved with leaves, flowers and magical animals, and tall windows looking over the immaculate gardens. And every single fabric in the room, from upholstery to tapestry, was a light green colour, reminiscent of spring leaves. 

Looking at herself in the tall, gilded mirror, Hermione thought with a sinking feeling, she had never looked this good. 

“Didn’t Miss bring any jewelry?” the House-elf sniffed, looking up at her like she was a piece of trash the dog had dragged in. 

“No, was I supposed to?” she asked, confusion on her face. “I was told everything I needed would be here for me.” 

“And indeed it will,” that cold, slithering voice of her partner for the evening said from the door. 

Turning around, she saw him leaning against the doorframe, a couple of slim boxes in his hands. He had dressed up too, his habitual black looking more ornate, more resplendent than usual, with embroidered sleeves of midnight black silk thread from his wrists to his elbows, and the same pattern creeping around his collar. His pale face stood out against the flowing patterns of black in his robe, the mottling of his skin more prominent than usual, like green mists swirling underneath his skin. 

Scurrying over, the House-elf bowed deeply before the Dark Lord, taking the boxes from his hand reverently, before setting them carefully down on the large vanity set.

Unpacking the boxes quickly, the elf gasped as she saw the contents. 

Hermione stretched her neck too, curiosity winning over her need to stay aloof in his presence, like she cared for whatever gifts he brought her. 

Inside, resting on black velvet, was an obviously ancient set of silver jewellry, shaped like writhing snakes. The earrings were long snakes dropping from the fastening to trail down the wearer’s neck, and the shimmering collar depicted the curling length of a snake, twisting twice around one’s neck, its head made to dip down between the wearer’s breasts. The matching diadem had two snakes, tongues flicking at each other at the apex of the crown, fanged mouths open. The eyes of the snakes were set with emeralds, tongues were elongated, cut rubies, and the teeth were sharp diamonds in the open jaws. 

Reverently, the House-elf lifted up the collar first, fastening it around her neck, before clipping on the earrings. In the end, the diadem was placed expertly in her curls. 

The set was surprisingly heavy, cold at first, but quickly heating up by the warmth of her skin. The head of the snake from the collar seemed to stretch and slide, fitting itself to her, jaw opening to nestle its flaming red tongue between the swell of her breasts, visible in her cleavage. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said reluctantly, letting the collar slide through her hands, the ruby tongue flicking against her skin, but she managed to hold back the words on the tip of her tongue: _Who did you kill to get these?_

He snorted, having obviously read the thought in her mind. “I tracked them down a long time ago. They belong to me rightfully, the set is a relic in my family. Originally, it was made for Slytherin’s wife.” 

“Oh,” she said, her hands dropping suddenly, trembling slightly. _Slytherin’s wife… A family heirloom. He was showing her respect, then, honouring her tonight._

Turning her around with her back to him, he made her watch the two of them in the tall gilded mirror. A cold horror stole through her, when she realized they looked … good, or at least _right,_ together. The tall, powerful man behind her, skeletal thin with his horrible face, still looking regal with his proud bearing and the power excuding from him, and her, a woman glowing with youth, maybe even looking beautiful tonight, dressed up and bejewelled like she was his … his queen. 

Slowly, she licked her lips, feeling his fingers tighten against her bare shoulders like hot flames, her own gaze not leaving the mirror as she took in the sight of them. _Like a monstrous wizard king with his bride._

“You like what you see,” he said dryly, breaking the spell of fascination that held her trapped. 

A blush rose in her cheeks, and he smirked. “Make sure to behave tonight, and you can join me on more such public occasions,” he said, before offering her his arm. 

She stared incredulously at his outstretched arm, and he quirked his lips. “What? Do you think I have no idea how to behave in high society?” he said, but his red eyes glinted with amusement. “Little witch, I might be powerful enough now to eschew all manners when I want to, but that was not the case when I was young. You’d do well to realize different occasions call for different behaviour. Come. Tonight, you will smile,” he ordered imperiously. “Remember, you’re _besotted.”_

Xxxx

A too-pale Snape, looking more embittered than usual, had made his wedding vows to a blushing, happy Perenella in a jewel-bedecked, dazzling white gown. Now, an hour later, Hermione thought the man was well on his way to get drunk again, as he had stumbled his way through his wedding waltz. His young bride now frowned at her husband, but she still tried to keep up a smile, to ensure the image of a happy, radiant bride. To herself, she had to admit Perenella’s wedding dress looked good, with a pearlescent white bodice, wrapped snugly around a tiny waist and her generous breasts, while the full skirt shone silvery white, embossed with sewn-in pearls in flowery patterns. _Though, during last week, she had felt like screaming if she had another owl about that dratted wedding dress. She had obviously succeeded in making Perenella her friend._

Hermione was sitting beside Voldemort on an ornate chair, smaller and a little less opulent than the one he was sitting in, watching the throng. 

There had to be more than a thousand people in the Malfoy ballroom, and the room was brightly lit by fluttering fairy lights and soft, shimmering orbs of liquid fire. Garlands and wreaths of flowers were everywhere, making the room smell like a flowering garden. The food was delicious, pastries that melted in the mouth, lemon-drenched oysters and other shellfish, heaping plates of salads and greens, all possible kinds of cold cuts, as well as roasts, fish and a mouthwatering display of cheeses, which Hermione didn’t dare to taste because of the baby. There were beverages of every kind and flavour, with a large selection of wines, both sparkling, red and whites, plus fruit juices and liquors to cater to every taste. 

The wizard at her side drank sparingly, nursing a goblet of some kind of white wine, but he had eaten a lot more than she had ever imagined he would, given how thin he was. To her surprise, he had sampled almost everything on the menu. 

People came by, offering greetings and respect, and she watched Voldemort nod graciously at them, while she worked on keeping up a silly smile, fit for someone _stupidly_ in love. _Because she would have to be stupid indeed, to love_ **_him_** _._ Very little of interest was exchanged between him and his followers, and she suspected he either used Legilimency, or maybe he just didn’t conduct business on such an occasion. Somehow, she thought he would be the kind of person who _always_ worked. _No rest for the wicked,_ she thought grimly to herself. 

On their way downstairs to the ceremony, before they made their grand entrance, he had told her to remember who she belonged to, and to act accordingly. 

_“What?” she had hissed, keeping her voice down, not to alert the snoozing portraits of past Malfoys._

“ _You are_ **_my_ ** _chosen companion,” he had said, red eyes flicking over at her, like he wondered if she was not quite sane, or not quite aware of his position. “You are the highest ranking lady of the wizarding world, and you will look down on everyone. Remember, you will act like they are all beneath you. Everyone, except me.”_

She had grumbled, but hadn’t bothered to explain to him that her reaction was due to his assumption that she belonged to him. _He might think so, but she certainly didn’t._

Now, she looked at everyone with an imperious expression, looking haughtier than Draco had ever managed, except for when she made herself simper at the man beside her. 

The photo shoot had been especially trying, with all the new organizations of the wizarding world present, and his voice had slithered into her mind, instructing her to hold his arm, smiling up at him. Hermione just wondered if her photographic self would be running screaming out of the frame, or if the image would look as uncomfortable as she felt. Especially when the photographer from the _Witch Weekly_ had demanded a kiss. 

Voldemort had never kissed her before - _thank Merlin for that -_ but at the request, he had looked amused, quirking his lips, before he matter-of-factly bent down to press his mouth against hers. Her lips had tingled, and she had made a surprised gasp as his tongue flicked over her bottom lip. As he withdrew, his eyes had darkened with desire, and to Hermione’s horror, there was a responding twinge somewhere deep in her belly, a curling flame of lust heating her up. _Oh Merlin, maybe her silly photo self would throw herself at Voldemort instead. That would be difficult to explain to the Order and the boys._ She had felt a little sick by her own visceral reaction, the now familiar guilt surging. 

In a corner, an orchestra was playing, and she was suddenly aware of Voldemort looking at her, cocking his head, a quizzical expression on his strange face. 

“Would you like to dance?” he asked, and she blinked at him, feeling as if the shocks were never-ending on this night. 

He rose, extending his arm to her again, and she tottered to her feet, gripping his arm, like she was faint. _This was it. She’d be caught on camera dancing with the Dark Lord. If anyone thought she’d been lured into this, forced and tricked, the public would wonder no longer after seeing the pictures. After this night, there would be images of him kissing her, them dancing, her smiling - and they would all believe her to be so far gone, she’d never be able to return to the light. Leaving the country with her son, after Voldemort was well and truly dead, sounded more and more like the only, viable option for her. For all purposes, she would be as good as exiled. Everyone would hate her, anyway._

The music stopped abruptly as they entered the floor, and all other dancers cleared the space so fast, it looked almost ridiculous. Voldemort lifted a hand lazily to the orchestra, and the musicians resumed playing. One sinewy, strong arm came around Hermione’s waist, while the other took her hand, drawing her into a slow waltz. To her surprise, he was a good dancer, leading her with sure feet and elegant movements across the gleaming, polished oaken floor. 

Trying to not look like she felt ill, she hid her face into his broad chest instead. That made him tighten his arms around her, holding her closer, as they swept around the dance floor. Somehow, the endless circles and the ease by which she moved with him made her feel like she was flying again, like her feet barely touched the ground, like they were swirling like mists weaving, entangling, shifting with the currents. It felt like the dance lasted a long time, but it surely wasn’t more than one song. When they were done, the audience forming around the perimeters of the dance floor applauded wildly, grinning like the fools they were. _Fools, for coming here, for letting this wizard trick them into his make-believe of a better society, when all he planned to do was to crush them beneath his iron fist, bending them to his will. These people almost deserved their fates, being this stupid._

The tall wizard holding her smirked as she looked up at him, before he led her back to their throne-like chairs. On the way back, she met the envious glance of Alecto Carrow, and Hermione couldn’t help it, she glared right back. _Damn, that woman was infuriating…_

“You have my permission,” he said lightly, “but not tonight.” 

“What?” she asked, feeling a little confused. 

“Cursing Alecto, of course. I could feel your intent. Do what you please with her.”

She almost stopped, but he pulled her smoothly along, before gesturing to her to sit down. 

Slowly, she seated herself, smoothing the soft folds of her dress along her thighs, while biting her bottom lip. “I’ll be expelled, wouldn’t I? I plan to take my NEWTs.” 

“Yes, I heard,” he said calmly. “While I agree it would look better until you have taken your exams, rest assured, you won’t be expelled.” 

Still in disbelief, Hermione had to ask again: “You mean I can curse one of your followers, just like that? What if she’s harmed?” 

That drew a crooked grin from him, and he glanced at her, saying pointedly: “That is, _Hermione_ , the point of a curse, isn’t it?” 

She almost started by his use of her first name, but then she realized, it was for the benefit of anyone who might listen in. _He never really did anything without purpose,_ she realized with a small flash of disappointment. Flustered at her own reaction, she said: “Why, yes, of course, but…” 

He shrugged again. “Do what you wish with her. I don’t mind. You can even kill her, if you so wish. She’s not that useful, and it’s safe to say, her results as a teacher are subpar at the best.” 

He turned away, as Antonin Dolohov approached them. Hermione narrowed her eyes, feeling the thin scar across her chest itch, the remnant from the Ministry battle. _He was fine with her cursing his followers? Oh, she could work with that._

In her mind, his voice hissed: “ _This wasn’t a carte blanche, girl. Antonin is useful. I would be very displeased indeed if you killed him.”_

She couldn’t help smirking. _So, there was a limit. But oh, while testing those limits, she could wreak so much havoc in his ranks._

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, beckoning Dolohov to join them on the daise. Flicking her a glance, he said in her head: _You could, little witch, but only if I allow you. And I will, to some extent. You have so much to learn about the darker aspects of magic, and you will need to practise._

That stopped her short, and she blinked. _No, the Greater Good wasn’t worth her dabbling into dark magic, was it? She might remove Death Eaters from the game, temporarily or permanently, serving her cause, but what if she also damaged herself?_

Beside her, Voldemort again grinned, like he was amused.

Xxxx

Later in the night, the bride and the groom came to take their leave. By now, Severus was barely coherent, eyes swimming in his head, and the Avery girl had to support him up to the daise, looking pinched, angry with her drunk husband. 

Voldemort tapped his lips, peering at the couple. Well, he knew Severus hadn’t wanted this, but the man was now this close to making a public spectacle of himself. Giving his lieutenant a vicious jab with his wand, making his own little witch inhale sharply in shock, he removed the alcohol from Severus’ body, effectively sobering him up. 

The man gasped, head snapping up, eyes suddenly lucid, before his mouth turned down, unhappily, as his new wife tugged at his arm. 

“Come on, Severus,” she stage-whispered, “we mustn’t keep our Lord waiting.” 

“Ah, well,” the man said, voice slightly hoarse like he had been smoking too, “thank you for this magnificent feast, my Lord. My wife and I are truly … grateful.” Severus looked like he had swallowed a crate of lemons as he bowed, and Voldemort smiled indulgently. 

“Severus, my friend, for your services, you deserve a grand wedding, befitting of my right hand man.” 

The Avery chit nodded with a beaming smile, and Voldemort cocked an eyebrow at her. “I bid you a good night, Madam Snape, I hope the two of you will enjoy the night as much as you enjoyed the Equinox.” 

Severus glared at him, realizing that Voldemort deliberately had Sobered him, forcing him to perform with his new wife, unable to excuse himself for being too drunk, but his wife blushed prettily. Granger looked almost bored by his side - _physically tired, he knew from the bond between him and his child._ Still, Voldemort couldn’t help taunting her either, so he added:”I know I will.” 

At that, her eyes snapped up, and she looked furious. Snape blinked, but the Avery girl merely tittered. With fascination, he saw that the enraged blush on Granger’s face spread to her chest, travelling down her cleavage. _She looked good, fitting so well to the image he wanted to project, with her tight bodice, pretty face and those riotous curls, adorned with the silvery Slytherin Set. This night she had behaved just like he had wanted her to do._ Letting his eyes trail over her, he nodded slowly. _Yes, he could admit to himself, he enjoyed her obedience, he relished it when she submitted to his will. Everyone obeyed him, but she really didn’t want to. That made it even sweeter when he made her do it anyway, grudgingly giving way when he imposed his will on her._

A flare of heat shot through his loins, and he smiled lasciviously at the girl. _He’d give it to her, tonight too. Never in his life had he bothered with sex as much as he had since he took her for the first time, but maybe he had been missing out. Regular sex didn’t seem to weaken his mind, like he had thought in his youth, rather the opposite, it sharpened his power and mental faculties. This was good. Forcing her to orgasm, forcing her magic to merge with his - it was delicious._

“Thank you, my Lord,” the Avery girl simpered, before turning to her husband: “The Abraxan carriage is waiting for us. Come along, Sevvie.” 

The girl seemed oblivious to the small snarl erupting from Severus’ throat and the sudden icy glare he levelled at his wife, but both he and Granger stared with fascination at the couple, as the girl dragged her reluctant, angry husband away. 

“He wasn’t happy about _that_ ,” Granger remarked, almost smiling a little, her eyes calculating. “I told him she referred to him as Sevvie, but I really wanted to see his reaction when it happened. Do you think she’ll dare to do that again?” 

Voldemort looked at her with interest. _Through Legilimency, he had known Granger to be somewhat callous towards other people._ She had set Severus on fire, for an instance, and cursed a girl at Hogwarts through a piece of parchment with a Disfigurement Curse, as well as a few other things, not to mention Obliviating her own parents, rendering them as completely different people _._ But this was the first time he had seen it himself - that detached curiosity in watching other people’s anger and distress. _Interesting, indeed. The girl was more of a Slytherin than she’d ever admit._

Clearing his throat, he shrugged. “You believe Severus might punish her on their wedding night?” 

“Punish…” she dragged the word out, before flicking her tongue over her lips. The movement sent a thrill down his spine, and he shifted on his chair. _Maybe it was time for them to withdraw, too._

“I’m not sure he’ll punish her,” she said, looking thoughtful. “He’d be more likely to give her a tongue lashing.” 

“A tongue lashing,” he said dryly, “on their _wedding_ night.” The little witch suddenly blushed furiously, realizing what she had inadvertently suggested. 

“I meant…” she faltered, “he has a quite sharp tongue.” 

“Yes,” he agreed, feeling rather whimsical, spurred on by her embarrassment, “he can be very pointed, sticking his victims to it, leaving them both _wet, sweaty, hot_ and _bothered.”_

Granger gaped at him, looking incredulous at his poor and silly attempt at dirty talking, before shaking her head. Grumbling, she muttered something about “silly wizards, no matter their age.” 

He gave her a loopsided leer, before rising from his chair, extending his hand to her. Slowly, she rose to, putting her hand daintily on his arm, but her face had paled. 

Slowly, he led her down from the dais, the crowds parting in front of them, dress robes and gowns in every colour making a blur, but no matter how garish their dresses, he made himself smile graciously at his followers and allies. _There was no accounting for taste._ Lucius, for one, had taken the opportunity to prance around in bright yellow, and Narcissa wasn’t much better in her red dress. Though they both had black trimmings, it was still ostentatious, not like the sober, elegant black he preferred himself. Glancing at the girl at his side, he almost nodded approvingly. _The black silk hugged her curves, framing her pale skin and the silver jewellery, making her caramel eyes and her golden-brown curls the only splash of colour._

As they left the ball room, the great doors clanging shut behind them, the girl turned to him. “Will there be Floo powder in my dressing room? I couldn’t see any earlier.” 

Voldemort shook his head, taking the time to stretch his shoulders and arms, cracking his knuckles after the long and tedious hours of the reception. “You won’t need it.” 

“Am I staying the night? No one told me,” Granger said, looking displeased. “I haven’t packed.” 

“Easily remedied,” he drawled, snapping his fingers. A House-elf turned up, and he ordered: “Bring fresh clothes from Miss Granger’s chambers at Hogwarts. She’ll need them tomorrow.” 

The elf bowed deeply, and disappeared with a crack. 

“Why am I staying over?“ 

“Obviously, to entertain me tonight.” 

Her eyes narrowed, her fingers clutching her skirt whitened, before she visibly forced herself to relax again. “You live here,” she stated. 

“Correct.” 

“Are you going to bring me to your chambers, or a guest room?” 

_Actually, that was a good question. He had thought to bring her to his quarters, but then again, it would be prudent to have her in a guest room. That was a failsafe way to bar her from snooping, but she’d never find the Horcrux, he was sure. Still, he was rather particular as to where he slept, and he could easily hinder her from rooting around in his things._ Voldemort shrugged, making a decision in the spur of the moment. “My chambers,” he said. 

Those big, brown eyes widened, and he could feel her curiosity mounting. She wanted to know how he lived, what he read and if he had anything exciting in his rooms - _Horcruxes -_ her mind helpfully supplied, but then her excitement flagged, as she realized he would hardly bring her to a place where he’d showcase the pieces of his soul. 

Voldemort had to smile. “Quite right, little witch,” he murmured, “I’m not a careless man.” 

She shot him a long glance, her shorter legs trying to keep up with his long strides down the hall, before her curiosity turned to another topic. “Why don’t you have your own house?” 

“I have, but it isn’t as comfortable as this,” he replied. “It could be, if I took the time and effort to make repairs.” 

“Oh.” Biting her lip, her eyes glazed over for a moment, briefly shielding her mind. He narrowed his eyes. _Had the little chit started to learn Occlumency?_

But then her eyes cleared again, the familiar brush of her mind coming back, and she said slowly, almost hesitantly: “I could help you. With the house, I mean.” 

“What?” He stopped, staring at her in astonishment. 

The girl hurried to explain: “I’m rather good with logistics, planning and getting things done. I figured, you wouldn’t have time to oversee house repairs. I could do it. I know I can. You should have your own estate, not staying with other people.” 

Voldemort blinked slowly. “You would help me renovate my house,” he stated in disbelief. 

“Yes.” She was nervous now, not sure about how he would respond to her offer, he could tell, but the main thing on his mind was _why_. It was such an odd thing to ask for. Shaking his head, he rooted through her thoughts - _and there it was, the nugget of gold -_ she wouldn’t do it for him. It was for their… **their son** ? _It was a boy, like he had somehow expected, but now the gender was confirmed, and she hadn’t seen fit to tell him. But then again, it didn’t matter, because she had decided, she was now loyal to the Slytherin line. Not to him, but to their son._

He stared down at the little witch. She squirmed in the dark hallway, wringing her hands, the long, tight sleeves of her black dress wrinkling slightly with her movements, but Voldemort didn’t care. 

_Now, she really knew who she belonged to. This meant, her usefulness had just stepped up several notches. He’d be able to demand her loyalty, somewhat, not only her compliance to their agreement. This … changed everything, and the game was truly, well underway. With her, he could …. Yes, this intelligent, powerful little witch was already formidable in her own right, and he was going to make her into one of his greatest assets. She had the brains of Severus, the efficiency of Antonin, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the ruthlessness of Bella. Granger would be indomitable, he was sure._

A triumphant grin broke out on his face, and he said, slowly, holding her gaze: “You can do that, little witch. I’ll allow you to make my house fit for my heir.”


	13. Underplayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Leave it,” he said, coming up behind her, voice raw and husky, “leave the jewelry. Strip everything but that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss smut in the last chapter? Oh well, here it is. ;-) 
> 
> Plus a little angst on the side, and our favourite pet snake...

Voldemort’s chambers were spacious, not that she had expected anything but, still the sheer size surprised her. The tall, ornamented mahogany door opened into a large antechamber, filled with high-backed chairs along the walls, meant for people waiting to be granted an audience. The antechamber led to a comfortable sitting room, roomy enough for twenty people or so, with a large fireplace, sofas in green velvet and bookshelves along the walls. Over the fireplace, there was a portrait of Slytherin. The old wizard snoozed in his chair, opening one bleary eye to glance at his heir as they passed through the room. He started at the sight of Hermione, sitting up, leaning forward to take a good look at her, eyes wide at the sight of the jewellery she was wearing, but Voldemort ushered her on. 

The next room was an office, filled with books, scrolls and tomes that she simply itched to inspect more closely, not to mention what had to be his own notes and annotations meticulously stacked on that big, ornamented desk, but Voldemort didn’t stop before they entered a grand bedroom with a gigantic four-poster. Bookshelves lined the walls, except for… 

… Hermione almost snorted, seeing the over-large tall mirror beside an inordinately large wardrobe, taking up almost half of a wall. _He was a true narcissist, didn’t she just know it?_

Then she squeaked. In front of the roaring fireplace, a massive snake had been napping, and now it had raised its head, tongue flickering out to taste the air. _To taste her._

She remembered the snake well from the incident at Godric’s Hollow during Christmas. That gigantic snake had coiled itself around Harry, ready to strike, but Hermione’s Blasting Curse had saved Harry, allowing them to escape from the trap. _Somehow, Hermione was quite sure the snake remembered that incident too._

“Meet Nagini,” Voldemort said lazily. “My pet.” 

The big snake hissed threateningly, vindictively, before it slithered towards them, moving faster than Hermione would have believed, coils unfurling rapidly as it slid over the polished floor, gaining speed as it moved against her. 

Involuntarily, she took a step back, hiding behind Voldemort, and to her great embarrassment, she found herself clutching his robe. 

Voldemort cast her a glance which she could only interpret as wicked, before hissing and spitting noises came from his mouth. For a while, the snake stopped, listening to him, before it responded with its own hissing. 

It was a conversation, she realized, but still an urgent sense of danger and panic coursed through her. As the snake started to move again, coming closer, Hermione moved around Voldemort, trying to keep his body as a shield between her and the snake. Then one strong arm shot out, gripping her shoulder to keep her still, long fingers clawing into her flesh. 

She writhed, trying to escape his grasp, but to no avail. He was just too strong. Whimpering, she was forced to remain still as the snake approached her. _Realistically, she knew Voldemort would have his pet under control, but… She couldn’t help it. An instinctive panic told her, she should be running for her life to escape the predator in front of her, though she also knew the snake wasn’t the most dangerous predator in the room._

Then the snake reared, muscled body rising high until its head was level with her own. Closing her eyes, fearing the strike, she felt it leaning in, tongue flickering across her cheeks. Her breathing came hard and fast, and then she felt the snake lowering its body, snout brushing her stomach. Opening her eyes again, she saw it slithering back to the fireplace, making more hissing noises. 

Slowly, she let her death grip on Voldemort’s robe go, and he let go of her shoulder. Crossing his arms across his broad chest, he said, voice more sibilant than usual: “Snakes are a part of the Slytherin legacy.” 

“I understand that,” she said shakily. _But knowing that hadn’t really prepared her for the reality of his pet. It was … larger than she’d remembered._

“She won’t harm you,” he stated. “She recognizes you as my mate.” 

“Excuse me?” she said blankly. “Am I your .. mate?” The word was unfamiliar on her tongue, and it was also a word she’d never use for herself, especially in relation to him. 

“Indeed you are, as snakes would see it,” he shrugged. 

“Ok,” she said shakily, hoping that her status as ‘mate’ to Nagini’s master would be enough to keep the snake from taking revenge for Godric’s Hollow. 

“Undress,” he said, one hand moving along his robe, letting it fall open by a whisper of magic. 

Slowly, she turned to the mirror, lifting her hands to remove the snake diadem. 

“Leave it,” he said, coming up behind her, voice raw and husky, “leave the jewelry. Strip everything but that.” 

Holding his gaze in the mirror, she unbuttoned the myriad of tiny buttons that held her dress together, from her chest and down to her navel. His eyes watched her hungrily in the mirror, and as he moved closer, she felt the stiff head of his cock poking into the small of her back. His hands came up to her shoulders, massaging her lightly as her dress parted, and she could feel her nipples harden in anticipation of what was to come. _She might hate it, but her body knew, he’d give her pleasure, so much pleasure._ Biting her lip, feeling the now familiar conflict rise, she was surprised when he growled, leaning his head down to bite lightly at the side of her throat. 

The sensation was tingling, delicious, sending shots of warmth into her belly, and she gasped. In the mirror, she saw her eyes becoming half-lidded, heavy, and as his thin lips sucked at the sensitive skin at the hollow between her neck and shoulder, she shivered, feeling wetness pool between her legs. 

“That’s it,” he crooned, tall body crowding her, hips thrusting lightly against her back. Inexplicably, a breathless moan fell from her lips, making him groan in answer. 

When she finished her slow unbuttoning, her silk dress whispered down, past her hips, pooling around her feet, like she was standing in a still, black pool. 

The wizard behind her drew in his breath, red eyes burning as he took in her lacy black underwear and long silk stockings. Grabbing her breasts, rolling her nipples through the lace, he whispered in her ear, tongue sliding across the shell: “I’ve changed my mind. Keep the stockings on.” 

She stilled, for a moment thinking of how that would look. _Naked, with only her black stockings and garter belt, his silver jewellry adorning her hair, ears and throat - she would, indeed look like the Heir of Slytherin’s plaything. Like Voldemort’s … lover. Like his…_ Her mind shied away from completing that line of thought, but she had stayed still too long. 

One large hand came around her neck, pressing lightly above the silver snake collar, almost like a warning or a threat, restricting her breathing for a brief moment, before letting up. 

Nodding, feeling as if her lungs couldn’t get enough air, she put her hands behind her back, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. With a soft click, it fell open, and she slid the straps down from her shoulders. He still cupped her breasts, long fingers sliding over her aching nipples, bunching the black lace encasing her breasts. When his hands fell away, the black lace did too, leaving her breasts bare. 

Those pale, long fingers traveled down her waist, hooking around the waistband of her knickers, before he shoved his right hand down the front, cupping her mound. 

“Wet,” he whispered smugly, “so soaked,” as his fingers parted her folds, dragging up her slit to find her nub. 

She nodded, feeling a lump in her throat, like she should have been crying. _Crying, because Voldemort made her feel good, because the most evil wizard in Britain knew her body well enough to pleasure her, because her body had given in, though her soul still resisted._

Goosebumps raced down her spine, and she couldn’t help arching her hips into his touch, rubbing herself against his fingers. Her hard clit brushing against his fingers was the single most delicious thing she could imagine, tremors chasing up and down in her sex, and she moaned. 

Those red eyes met hers in the mirror, a lascivious smile on his face, before his magic moved over her like a whispered caress, Vanishing her knickers. 

A chair slid over the floor towards them, and he sat down, pulling her down with him. Her stocking-clad legs fell open on each side of his powerful thighs, and he grunted in her ear: “Look.” 

His pale hands spread her open, and she watched in the mirror, enraptured, as he circled her tiny nub with his thumb, before his middle finger pushed into her, pumping slowly, curling slightly inside her. 

Pressing into her back, his cock throbbed, and she shifted her hips, rubbing against his hardness, wishing suddenly that he was inside her, that he was filling her up. In the mirror, she could see his nostrils widen, like he had smelled her surge of arousal, and he lifted her up effortlessly with strong arms, cording with ropey muscles, and set her down on the red, leaking tip of his cock, pushing her down. 

In the mirror, she could see how her slit parted obscenely for his girth, swallowing him up into her body, her sex glistening around him. 

Voldemort groaned as he bottomed up in her, his cock firmly lodged inside her, before he lifted her up again. The ridges and veins on his cock were now shining with moisture - from her - and he slammed her down again. Hermione started to move with him, rolling her hips, and the man behind her bit his bottom lip, red eyes almost rolling in his head as she clenched her abdomen around him. His hands looked alabaster pale against the black stockings on her thighs. 

“Touch me, like you did before,” she panted, and he breathed heavily against her neck, kissing and suckling her sensitive skin. 

“Where,” he rumbled, and she could feel his grin against her skin. 

“There, you know, between my legs,” she whispered, feeling mortified. “Please, my Lord?” In a brief moment of dizzying clarity, her head spun: _Sweet Morgana, was she begging Lord Voldemort to touch her clit?_

Apparently, she was, and he obliged her, rubbing her parted sex. The haze of desire descended again, and her orgasm was rushing towards her, the trembles in her belly starting, her chest heaving as her moans became higher, more breathless. 

“Look,” he rasped against her neck, “look, how good you take my cock, little witch, look, how much you enjoy it, look how delicious you are when you come on Lord Voldemort’s cock.” 

Seeing him pump into her, her own face flushed, back arching, made her whole world shatter into a clenching, frenzied sensation, shockwaves rolling through her belly, her sex tightening around that impossible, big hardness inside her, back arching to get as much of him inside her as possible, her flushed face in the mirror contorting into a grimace of ecstasy, white light filling her vision as her broken voice whimpered his name: “Voldemort, oh, please, more!”

He snarled, pumping into her with erratic thrusts, before he too stiffened, cock pulsing inside her in long, jerking spurts, hands clawing around her hips and thighs, almost bruising her. 

Coming down from their high, they were both panting, hearts hammering, and he grabbed her shoulders, making her lean back, resting against his heaving chest. She sat still for a few minutes, feeling him soften inside her, droplets of slick semen sliding out of her along his length. 

But inside her, horror and despair warred with the glorious afterglow of sex. _She had come on his cock, moaning his name, and this time, she was sure, he hadn’t manipulated her with magic. It was all her, without doubt. She had come for Lord Voldemort, not for his magic._

xxxx

The morning after, she found out he hadn’t only taken her back to his chambers for sex, it was for PR reasons too. There was a banquet breakfast to honour the happy couple, and the menu included photographers from at least five different news organizations. There were at least a hundred guests that had stayed the night at Malfoy manor, and the poor House-elves looked exhausted. She, on the other hand, had slept like a log in his bed, before he woke her up in the morning, demanding a blow job that had left her jaws aching. 

Snape and his bride had returned too, and Hermione was shocked to see Perenella’s throat covered in what had to be purple hickeys. It was almost as if Snape had tried to live up to his reputation as a vampire. The bride was also walking slightly gingerly, while Snape looked the same as always, stoic, unflappable, sneering and displeased. 

There was no doubt they had consummated the marriage. Still, Perenella looked happy - even smug. Hermione reasoned, it couldn’t have been all bad, even though Snape had been fuming as they left the night before. 

Voldemort staged various photoshoots with her during breakfast, including him spoon-feeding her. As he speared a sausage on his fork, aiming for her mouth, the photographer at the ready, she heard his voice in her brain: _Pretend this is my cock. Suck on it, girl, suck like you mean it, just like you did an hour ago._

That brought a deep blush to her face as she opened her mouth to take a bite, and he gave her a wicked once-over just as the camera flashed, smoke puffing out with a small bang. 

Later, Perenella came by, saying happily: “I can see you took my advice. He has really been taking care of you the whole time, everyone has noticed. You know, people are talking about this. I mean, aren’t you excited? The Dark Lord treats you like you’re his betrothed! My guess is, he’ll pop the question any time.” 

Hermione smiled weakly at Perenella, before whispering like she was shy: “Oh, I wouldn’t presume.” Inside, all she could think of was: _Oh Merlin, please, no? He couldn’t mean to do that?_ But the logical part of her, that part which almost always kept her cool and rational, replied: _Better than killing you. That’s probably the other option, unless we manage to kill him first._

Xxxx

Her voice was a low, deadly whisper: “What did you say?” The dust tickled her nose, making her want to sneeze. 

Harry glared defiantly at her, green eyes hard, before he repeated: “Are you _that_ good an actor, Hermione?”

It was Thursday, and she had just completed the last of her NEWTs exams after her weekend at Snape’s wedding. She felt awful about her results as usual, a jittery feeling of having forgotten something very important, rendering her work null and void, but still, she had looked forward to meeting the boys. _Obviously, she had been mistaken._

Eyes narrowing, she felt fury rise inside her, and the dust in the Shrieking Shack started to rise too, moving in little dust devils, getting in the eyes and mouth of the boys, making them cough and wave their hands to clear the air. 

Her whole body felt charged, electric, as if she could call on enough power to infuse her surroundings with magic too. _Which was probably what was happening,_ that logical voice inside her reminded her. 

The boys had turned so fast from first urging her on to get closer to Voldemort, then doubting her as they saw results of her work. _It would have been ridiculous, if it wasn’t so infuriating._

“What the hell, Harry, did you think I was falling for him?” she asked, voice quiet and dangerous. “Did you buy it? Well, that’s good, because if _you_ did, then surely everyone else did. I mean, all those people who DOESN’T KNOW THAT I’M PRETENDING!” 

At the last words, her voice rose to a shriek, and the dust devils surged forward, attacking the boys, driving them back, as Ron angrily shouted: “Just look at you, using magic against us now, while spending all weekend simpering at HIM! We saw that picture of him feeding you sausage like it was his… his… you- know-what, and you looked like, I mean, blushing and all. Fuck, Hermione, you can’t fake a photo, did you know? Dancing with him, and your photo self didn’t once try to escape! Kissing him with stars in your eyes! You’re NOT acting, this is REAL, and this is just the icing on the cake, _you_ attacking _us_!” 

Involuntarily, she felt her rage bubble up too fast, taking control over her, making her throw _something_ at the boys, a red flash, spell sounding like a thunderclap, and the boys were thrown backwards several metres, landing on their backs. 

A deadly silence rose. Dust motes were still hanging in the air, making everything seem blurry, or maybe it was just the tears in her eyes. She stood panting, anger still coursing through her, tears of rage trickling out of her eyes, while the boys slowly got to their feet, eyes never leaving her. 

“Come on, Ron,” Harry mumbled. “We’re done here.” 

The boys stumbled off, without a backward glance, sharp cracks of Apparition coming from just outside the house, and she was left, alone, in the Shrieking Shack. With a shout, magic flaring out in a wild burst, the windows in the room exploded outward, shattering like a glittering rain of shards. 

Left on the floor, in a shimmering heap, was Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. _Honestly, did the boys never think through anything? Forgetting an important artifact like this, leaving it for anyone to pick up?_ Sighing angrily, she snatched it up, stuffing it into the pocket of her robe. 

Stumbling back through the tunnel, anger still coursing through her, her lungs still heaving for breath, she felt as if the very foundations of the earth had been shaken loose. _Harry and Ron, they didn’t believe in her anymore. Not only had she lost her meaning to them as a friend, with those sacrifices they had asked - no,_ **_demanded_** _, but now, they didn’t even believe she was on their side anymore. The feeling of unfairness grew, like a bubble of evil expanding inside her. After all she had done? After everything she had sacrificed for Harry and the Order? Doing what they had asked of her? Giving up her body, her reputation, her happiness and her future? And now they actually thought she had chosen_ **_Voldemort?_ **

Coming out of the tunnel, paralyzing the Whomping Willow with a practised flick of her wand, she ran straight into Alecto Carrow. 

“Out on your own, without a chaperone?” The smile on Alecto’s face was nowhere near pleasant. “I wonder what our Lord would think about that. Out for a tryst, is it? Meeting a secret boyfriend, a Mudblood or even a Muggle, perhaps?” 

Hermione didn’t even bother to explain that no Muggles lived anywhere near Hogsmeade, and she kept on walking grimly towards the castle. _Snape had allowed her to visit the Shack, and Voldemort had sanctioned Hogsmeade, but obviously, Alecto Carrow didn’t know that. Still, the witch would try to get her into trouble._ Fury simmered inside her, like thick, hot lava bubbling, and she kept her head down, keeping a brisk tempo. 

But the Carrow witch kept up. “My, my, or maybe you met with one of those filthy friends of yours. Maybe even Harry Potter?” 

Rage shot through her in an instant, and she stopped short. Because she knew, if Carrow managed to plant that idea in Voldemort’s head, he’d dig for it in her mind, finding too much information on Harry’s whereabouts. _Staying with various parts of the Weasley family in turn, then shacking up with Kingsley for a few nights, then staying at McGonagall’s ancestral home for a few days, before returning to the Weasley family, before the circle began anew. It was much too predictable and transparent, but had the boys listened to her when she explained it? No! Not even that. They didn’t even trust her to give practical advice! And still, she had to protect them._

A small snarl escaped her, and she felt her magic gathering again. Building up like a storm, like a tornado, uncontrollable, wild and ferocious, like she could do anything, like _it_ could do anything, like it could act, change the world at her mere thoughts, the magic WAS her….

“I see,” Alecto said slowly, triumphantly. “I think our Lord will be interested, indeed.” 

… and the storm broke as something snapped inside her: Spinning around, her wand in her hand, she silently blasted an _Expulso_ at Carrow. The blue light tore out of her wand, lighting up the skies with a brief flash, before a thunderous explosion shot Carrow backwards, landing her in the Whomping Willow, activating the tree again. 

Silently, Hermione stood still, watching with a mix of aching horror and grim satisfaction as the tree attacked the unconscious witch, pummeling her mercilessly, until a strong flail sent her rocketing away, out of the Willow’s reach, a small, crumpled thing on the ground. 

Xxxx

Snape said, blowing out a puff of smoke, standing in his window sill: “Life isn’t fair. Didn’t anyone tell you that? Or did you expect to traipse through your life like a true Gryffindor Princess with no resistance, everyone bending to any and all of your silly ideas?” 

_To her surprise, Hermione had gone straight to the Headmaster, confessing her attack on Alecto Carrow, first calmly, and then with a growing hysteria._

_He had just nodded thoughtfully, listening to her panicked rambling, until she stopped, having emptied herself for the guilt, the fear and the nightmarish feeling of having_ **_wanted_ ** _to harm someone. Then, because she had no friends anymore, the dour Headmaster being the closest to a confidante she had left, she had blurted out that Ron - by a stroke of luck, she had managed to refrain from mentioning Harry - had believed she had turned, effectively shutting her out._

_At that, there was a small glimmer of triumph in his black eyes, like he had been proved right. “Indeed,” he said slowly, before opening a window, lighting his cigarette. Somehow, she couldn’t recall him smoking before the wedding. Maybe he had started a new, bad habit. He had, at the very least, looked haggard and more unkept than ever in the week that had passed, dark rings around his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping._

Now, she glanced at him, standing in profile against the tall window, his face only partially lit by the embers of the cigarette, all harsh angles and beak of a nose against the faint light. 

“Fair?” she asked bitterly. “No, I don’t know. Well, maybe I did think it would be fair. Maybe I did think they would trust me. Maybe I thought friendship meant something. Maybe I was a fool, to believe people would remain true.” 

Snape snorted, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “Why would they believe you? Among us all, you’re one who’s the closest to the Dark Lord, and I must say, even I thought of your performance at … my _wedding…”_ \- his face turned into a grimace as that word passed his lips - “as convincing. He’s known to subvert people and charm and coerce them into doing his bidding. Why not you too?” 

Hermione sputtered. “I’m not close to him. _You_ are, but I’m not really…” 

“Yes, you are,” Snape interrupted. “I’ve seen him with countless witches over the years, but I can assure you, he never let anyone sit beside him, he never ever impregnated them. He has singled you out, and if you want to achieve … things, you should be more observant. You might have more influence than you think. _He_ won’t admit to that, most certainly, and you will have to wrangle concessions out of him, but it’s all there. Believe me, whatever you want to make of it.” 

She sighed, shoulders hunching in on herself, feeling smaller and more vulnerable than she could remember in years. _What if it was true? What should she do with such an influence, if Harry wouldn’t allow her to help him?_ She muttered: “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel that way at all. I feel powerless."   
  
Sitting quietly for a moment, her mind still churning around the fact that she had Cursed a woman, causing her to be soundly thumped by a malevolent tree without even trying to help, she whispered in the end: "What will he do about … what I did?” 

Snape snorted. “Nothing. He told you, didn’t he? All that’s going to happen, is that I need to find another Muggle Studies teacher. I’m sure her brother will be angry, but he’ll never disobey the Dark Lord. Where did she end up, did you say? I need to send someone to find her. Do you think she’s alive?”

Hermione sighed heavily. “I don’t know, I think so. She was still whimpering.” 

“Such a shame. One could always hope,” Snape said snidely. 


	14. Underreported

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closing her eyes briefly, she said: “Can you make me feel like last time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets her NEWTs. Voldemort has a dubious past (but you knew that, didn't you?).

It turned out, Alecto Carrow didn’t make it. Voldemort was quite impressed with the little witch for killing the woman - _it was far more vicious than he had imagined -_ but it was easy to sense she wasn’t that happy herself. 

“Come on,” he said impatiently, “stop crying, I’m taking you downstairs in five minutes.” 

She was still sobbing, but she scrambled around, finding her purse, pulling on her shoes. Though his cock twitched, seeing her red, puffy eyes, he was not about to attend her end-of-year ceremony dragging a sniffling witch through the Great Hall. _That would not be conducive to his image. People might think he was abusing her, and that wouldn’t do. Though … he wouldn’t mind doing that, only in private. Tie her up with magic, perhaps, and then spank her. Make her cry, before he took her. And he was sure she’d love it. She would be dripping for him._

Sighing, he palmed his wand. “Look,” he began, “no one is going to miss Alecto. Not me, not you, not even her brother. Why _are_ you crying?” 

At that, her face crumpled again. “I killed her,” she wailed. “I ripped my soul. I’m a monster!” 

Voldemort rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes,” he said, tapping his feet. “You killed, you mutilated your soul. What else is new? This is how it works. Now stop crying! We’re going downstairs in public, pull yourself together.” 

She glared at him, pretty brown eyes overflowing with tears. “I know _you_ don’t think killing is a big deal, but it is to me. Do you even remember the first time you killed someone?” 

Voldemort shrugged. “Of course I do. That’s not something one forgets, is it?” 

“You tell me,” she shot back, her voice bitter. 

“Well,” he said, humouring her with the hope of distracting her, “I was fifteen, during my summer holiday, and I couldn’t pay the whore. So, I killed her.” 

The girl stopped crying, gaping at him in shock. “You did what?” she said weakly. 

“Killed the whore,” he confirmed. To his satisfaction, the girl narrowed her eyes. _She was distracted, alright._

In a low voice, magic crackling, like she was about to lose control, she asked: “You had a prostitute?” 

“I had,” he repeated. To his amusement, her pretty little face darkened. Picking her mind, he saw that she wasn’t at all worried about him _killing,_ only him _paying_ for sex. _In short, she was morally outraged on behalf of this long-dead witch._

Loftily, he said: “I rarely paid for sex. Though, during summers, I wasn’t about to sully myself with Muggles. Back in those days, respectable witches were more uptight with who they let between their legs.” 

_Summers were predictably dry spells during his school days, because he had had no reliable way of picking up witches. One-night stands with strangers just weren’t done in the forties in the wizarding world, and it was hard meeting witches outside their homes._

_Though at Hogwarts … He did not mention how he had gone through most witches above fourth grade when he was still in school. A handsome school boy like him, was more than good enough for a kiss and a cuddle for the dainty Pure-blood girls, for a short-time relationship, maybe even a quick fuck in a corner. But his dubious maybe-Half-blood status had rendered him unsuitable for anything else - not that he had ever_ **_wanted_ ** _anything long-term._

Granger puffed herself up. “I had no idea you bought sex. That’s so … low,” she said, despisal thick in her voice. 

He shrugged. “You asked. I haven’t done so for a long time.” 

“I can’t believe you had to … buy it,” she said, a small shudder dribbling down her spine. 

“Different times,” he replied. _Witches were decidedly odd. Here Granger had been crying because she had been afraid for her soul, and now, all she cared about was him paying for sex._

“Nevermind,” she huffed. 

As a peace offering, he extended his wand, removing all traces of tears on her face, erasing the puffiness. 

She peered at him, still looking at him like he had _disappointed_ her somehow, but in the end, she took his arm to walk downstairs to the Great Hall. 

The Hall was filled with milling parents, seventh-year students, siblings and grandparents. Everyone parted for him, like they should, and he ushered Granger to the foremost seats, right in front of the Head table. With satisfaction, he saw her head was held high, no traces of her earlier distress visible. 

Severus was standing on the daise, stern expression on his face, while a scowling McGonagall stood at his side, ready to hand him the scrolls with the students’ results. They looked like the angriest couple Voldemort had ever seen. 

He couldn’t help smirking at the shudder of fear flitting over McGonagall’s face in the moment he sat down in front of them. The witch looked almost sick, and though she tried to keep her eyes away from him, staring straight out in the crowd, her eyes crept back to him, again and again, in a sort of horrified fascination. 

So much was hanging on this moment, for so many in the crowd. The stench of nervous sweat, teenagers and parents worrying about their final marks, hormones roiling as they waited for their NEWT results to determine the rest of their life, was hideous. Bile almost rose in his throat by the nervous tension, the emotions assaulting his mind like a barrage of sour acid. The witch beside him was worried too, her anxiety level spiking, and to his surprise, she took his hand, clutching it with a surprisingly strong grip, though her hands were small compared to his own. 

Silently, he ordered a photographer from the Prophet to come closer, capturing the way Granger clung to him. The bang and the puff from the camera startled her, and she hastily withdrew her hand. 

Instead, he pulled her to him, gathering her into the crook of his arm, nodding again to the photographer. The girl tensed, before she let herself melt into his body. This time, he knew it wasn’t all acting. _The girl genuinely took comfort from being in his arms, like his presence could shield her from what she perceived as an imminent disaster. In her head, T’s, P’s and D’s flitted around, but what she dreaded the most was an A._

 _Acceptable -_ **_mediocre_ ** _\- not worthy of anyone’s care or attention. Just another witch in the crowd. Oh, little Hermione Granger wanted to be the one, the best - she couldn’t stand the thought of being a normal nobody._

Voldemort almost snorted. _Like she’d do that badly. Like he’d_ **_allow_ ** _her to do badly._

No matter that, she was almost beside herself as the ceremony started, each student receiving the scroll with their results from Severus. Whispers, muffled crying and outbursts of joy rustled through the crowd, as students and parents took in their final marks. 

As “G” for Granger was called, she rose, her legs shaking, and he watched her put on a mask of polite interest as she walked up to the daise. Severus handed her the scroll with a small smile, and she curtsied with a small, mechanical smile of her own, before walking back to him. 

He could see her pulse hammering in her throat as she sat down, her hands trembling as she clutched the scroll, staring blindly at the thick yellow vellum, like it had the power to destroy her life. 

Voldemort almost rolled his eyes, before snatching it. Casually, he ripped the tasseled string holding it together, her mouth gaping in furious shock, and he glanced down the sheet of creamy, yellow parchment with graceful, flowing calligraphy in black, expensive ink. 

“All O’s,” he said with approval, before handing her the parchment. 

She snatched it back, glaring at him, before breathing heavily as her eyes scoured the parchment. A wide smile formed on her face, transforming her features into radiance, and suddenly, she threw her arms around him with a small shriek, hugging him. She was strong, arms squeezing his shoulders like a vice, pressing her torso against him, her wild curls tickling his face. 

Voldemort felt … well, **surprise** didn’t cover it. _He was positive, he’d never been hugged before. Never. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it was strange, unfamiliar, unnecessary. Not something he would do of his own volition, not even something he would normally accept being done to him._

Still, he knew a response was expected of him. They were in public, after all, and people were definitely watching. This was a special occasion, and he had to reciprocate. Slowly, he patted her back, feeling slightly overwhelmed. _Witches held on to him when he fucked them. Not anytime else. This - the relationship with Granger - was all an act for them both, but was it truly an act for her, if she was hugging_ **_him_ ** _of all people? Maybe the sudden joy of her excellent academic results had fried her brain._

Lifting his head from her sweet-smelling brown curls, he met Severus’ eyes. The man looked shocked, like he had seen an unexpected, raging violent ghost, and Voldemort shrugged. _For all his years and experience, he didn’t know what was going on either. This was … strange._

Xxxx

Later, in her chambers, he said grudgingly: “You did well. A very good NEWT, if I must say so.” 

She looked speculatively at him, brown curls snaking around her slender, pale throat. “How far was I from your result?” 

“Competitive, huh?” he grunted, peering down at her. 

“Yes,” she said, unashamedly, even giving him a small grin. 

“I still hold Hogwarts’ best score,” he said, and even he could hear the purr of smug arrogance in his own voice. 

The girl bit her bottom lip, looking momentarily irritated, but then she shrugged. Just as smugly as him, she responded: “ _I_ didn’t follow the lessons.” 

_Like that had mattered to him, back in the days. He had been so far above his peers, the lessons had been just something he had to do. He had been better._ Voldemort snorted. He wasn’t about to compete with someone fifty years younger than him, someone weaker, someone who should be under his thumb. 

Glancing about the room, he saw the bookshelves were considerably fuller than last time he was here. She had obviously spent her time at Flourish and Blotts well. _Come to think of it, he had paid for her splurge in the bookshop._ Narrowing his eyes, he wandered over to see what she had bought. The books smelt wonderful: Ink, the warm, spicy scent of cinnamon, a whiff of old, cracked parchment, mingling with a flowery scent of … moonflowers and maybe the sweetness of a deep, red vintage Port? He blinked slightly, compartmentalizing the delicious scent for later examination, and perused her books instead. 

_Several volumes on advanced human Transfiguration, quite a few tomes of ritual magic, five Potion texts on poisons and antidotes, a few modernly garish, coloured books on Herbology and at least ten books giving a thorough introduction to Dark magic._

Voldermort couldn’t help but nod approvingly. _This was a good selection. She could learn a lot from this. It was evident, she knew her way around the bookstore._

Then the girl whispered, her face a rosy blush as she looked past him, deliberately not meeting his eyes. “I suppose we’re going to… well, you know.” 

Amused, he nodded at her. _That’s why he had followed her back to her chambers. It wasn’t just for PR purposes._

Closing her eyes briefly, she said: “Can you make me feel like last time?” 

Shock travelled down his spine, going straight to his cock, making him rock-hard in no time. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. _She wanted it. She wanted_ **_him_** _. He had won, she was begging for it._ The knowledge of his dominance over her made shimmering heat rush through him, lust and desire taking control over his mind. _Somewhere, inside him, a voice feebly said: Don’t let the submission of one girl take over your mind. She’s nothing but a toy, a tool, to be discarded when she isn’t useful anymore. But right now, his body would have none of it._

With a harsh growl, he said: “Bend over the chair.” One hand shot out, grabbing her neck, half-dragging her over to the armrest of one of her sturdy wingbacks, bending her over. She was gasping, chest heaving, and his other hand grabbed a fistful of her robes, lifting them up over her hips. 

A muffled groan, her face buried in the seat cushions, made it even more _urgent,_ making his cock throb like he’d burst a blood vessel, and he made her underwear fall away. His robe parted, and there he was, fisting his cock, the red slit already weeping fluids, rubbing himself against her cunt. 

And the girl was wet. Already soaked, slit parting easily for his member, he stroked a few times up and down, coating himself in her slickness. She whined, wriggling her hips against him, almost humping his cock as he bumped her hard little nub. 

“Get ready,” he grunted, positioning himself, still holding her head down, as the other guided his cock to her hole. 

She cried out as he speared her, the delicious tightness hugging him like a warm, slick glove, and he almost moaned as he dragged himself in and out of her. Bending over her, his breath making a visible frisson of tension run along her skin, he whispered: “I know you love power. I know you want to experience the match with a power greater than your own. In time, you’ll undoubtedly be a very strong witch, but as of yet, you are unfinished, unformed, untrained - and you are no match for me. You are **mine** , little witch.” 

Close to sobbing, she whispered a choked “yes”, as his long fingers pressed into her neck and throat. Almost automatically now, their magical power entwined, rising up to nip and bite at each other, before merging into bliss. 

Stars blossomed behind his eyelids, and it felt like a thunderstorm racing through his veins, lightning crackling and thunder roaring as pleasure bloomed. Picking up his speed, he rammed her into the armrest, her growing moans coming more rhythmically, faster, and he couldn’t stop it, his balls tightened, his hips crashing into her with full force as he collapsed, groaning and shaking over her back, as the girl shattered underneath him, convulsing around him, prolonging his orgasm, milking his cock until he was empty. 

It felt like he had to wrench himself off her, raising his torso, standing on almost unsteady feet, steadying himself at the back of the wing back chair, as the girl slowly crawled herself into an upright position, his come trickling down her pale thighs. 

She was breathing hard too, curls sweaty and sticking to her skin, but her eyes were dazed, like she had had an epiphany. 

With an absolute clarity, Voldemort knew he wanted to sit down in that chair, have a Firewhisky and go to sleep. It wasn’t as if he had the energy to go back to Malfoy manor just yet. 

Xxxx

“Why are you reading children’s books?” he said lazily, the half-filled tumbler dangling from his long fingers. 

The fireplace was roaring, and inexplicably, it seemed like Voldemort was going to stay. He had never lingered before after sex, and she felt thoroughly confused.

“What?” she said, suddenly panicky, all the drowsiness from the _incredible_ sex suddenly gone. On the small table between the two chairs was Dumbledore’s gift to her, ‘ _The Tales of Beadle the Bard’_. Yesterday, she had poured over it again, trying to find some meaning as to why Dumbledore would gift her a children’s story. _But she was sure, Dumbledore had never intended Voldemort to find out that he had given her the book._

Voldemort hummed slightly. “A gift from Dumbledore, eh? Did he tell you why he gave it to you?”

Hermione sighed. Again, he had been in her mind, and she had to guess, he knew more about her and her plans than he let on. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted. 

“Because the Hallows are real,” Voldemort said, watching her closely. 

Blinking, she whispered: “They are? The Cloak, the Wand and the Stone?” 

“They are,” Voldemort confirmed. “I have the wand.” 

“You have?” she gasped, and Voldemort nodded. 

“It’s not working properly,” he said pensively, resting his head against the tall chair. “The solution to that is … somewhat problematic. One needs to win the wand. I’d have to duel, possibly kill, Severus, as he defeated the last owner.” 

“Dumbledore,” she guessed, mind racing. 

“Yes,” Voldemort said. “Severus is useful, so I’m loath to lose him.” 

Deep in her guts, she knew, she also didn’t want to lose Severus Snape. He might be a villain, but he was … a good companion. _Maybe even a friend - the only one she had left_. “That wasn’t what happened that night,” she said quickly, thinking about what Harry had told her. “It was Draco Malfoy that Disarmed Dumbledore before Snape killed him. Wouldn’t that mean Draco is the true owner?” 

“Draco did that?” Voldemort said in disbelief. “Why haven’t anyone told me!” His magic was building up now, swirling around him like a gathering storm. 

Pursing her lips, Hermione rather thought she’d do anything to keep Lord Voldemort from having a temper tantrum in her chambers. While she felt reasonably sure he wouldn’t harm her, due to the baby, she thought he wouldn’t give a knut for destroying her things. _And all those new books she hadn’t had the chance to read yet…! The precious books she had saved for reading after her NEWTs were done._ Her Gryffindor courage sparked, and she barked out, waving a hand to indicate his magical fury: “Stop that!” 

Looking outraged, Voldemort stared at her like she had grown a second head. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being told what to do. 

Hermione soldiered on, pretending that nothing unusual had happened, though she felt like she was sitting on the edge of her chair, ready to run from dragon fire - or worse.

With a small shrug, she said: “I don’t know, maybe because they thought the killing part was more important?” 

He peered silently down into his tumbler, swishing the whisky around, causing the amber liquid to form thick, heavy wine legs trailing on the sides of the paper thin crystal. 

Voldemort was hard to read at the best, but Hermione could see - and feel - that he was actually making an effort to rein in his magic. Slowly, the storm abated, leaving only the usual pounding low pulse of power that she always associated with him. 

Drinking deeply, he shook his head with a small groan. “All this time - and the solution might be as easy as killing Draco. I’ll see to it tomorrow.”

Her eyes popped, and shivers raced down her spine. _The ramifications of telling him about Draco’s Expelliarmus hadn’t been on her mind. She had wanted to spare Snape, but instead, she had condemned Draco Malfoy to his death. Knowing Voldemort, a Killing Curse would be a mercy._

Closing her eyes, she reached out a shaking hand - _the tempest had passed, but she was now guilty of causing the death of another -_ grasping her tea mug, taking a big sip. _Draco dead, but Snape was saved. Who was she to decide if anyone should live or die?_

Looking at Voldemort, now seemingly relaxed in his chair, she felt cold. _The man who she welcomed into her body would never experience such qualms. For him, killing was as easy as having tea. He truly was a monster. Not only on the outside, but most of all on the inside. How could Harry ever compete with someone like this? Someone who’d hold the power of the Elder Wand?_

_And oh Merlin, if the Tales were true, was Harry’s Invisibility Cloak also…?_

“What Cloak?” he asked, voice more sibilant than usual, but she could tell, he was instantly alert. 

Hermione groaned, realizing she had just revealed another secret to him. 

Heavily she said, knowing there was no use in pretending: “Harry inherited a Cloak from his father. It’s very good, working far better than any other Invisibility Cloak I’ve ever heard of.”

_This time she felt it, when he invaded her mind, a rush of memories pertaining to the Cloak bubbling up. The trio sneaking around underneath it, the insanely good quality on the visibility distortion, hiding them from view from even a close encounter with suspicious people on the look-out._

Then Voldemort turned his head, eyes locking on her outer robe, hanging on a peg by her door. 

He rose to his full height, reaching the door in three long strides, pulling the Cloak out of her robe. 

“Ah,” he sighed, satisfaction rolling from him in waves, his power curling around her with a languid squeeze, making her own magic purr like a great cat at the caress. 

He sauntered back to the chair, sitting down while running the fabric through his hands. Cocking his head, he muttered spells under his breath, and his magic swirled around them, prodding at the Cloak, examining it. Small lights rose underneath his hands, flashing and dying, undulating in deep-coloured waves across the grey material. 

She watched with fascination, knowing that she had a rare chance to observe a spellmaster at work. Straining her ears, she tried to hear the incantations he muttered, but most of it was unintelligible. He was using languages she didn’t know - _several different languages, if she wasn’t mistaken, recognizing German, Italian, something that had to be Old Norse, a few spells she thought might be in Arabic, as well as others she couldn’t identify -_ his power pulsing gently, sometimes with harder thrusts, stroking the fabric with a mix of broad sweeps and sharp jabs. 

After a few minutes, he nodded, a wide grin breaking out on his face. “This is indeed a Hallow,” he declared with satisfaction. Cocking his head as he glanced at her, he folded it up, before securing it in the pocket of his robe. “I’ll take this,” he said in a voice that would brook no nonsense. 

Hermione shrugged. _Trying to get it back from him would be futile, and consequently, Harry’s Cloak was now lost to Lord Voldemort. Somehow, she thought she should be angrier about that. She should have been angry at herself, for not managing to shield her mind. She should have been disappointed, because she had lost what had to be a vital artifact for the Order. Then again, Voldemort was too strong a Legilimens. She was as good as helpless when it came to stop him from invading her thoughts. There had been nothing she could do. Even she couldn’t berate herself for not doing the impossible, so, she was willing to settle for accepting the loss._

A small shiver raced down her spine. _Helpless against his power… He had been right, she did like it. She did enjoy his power, somewhere deep down, in a hidden, shameful part of herself. And he knew it, which made it even worse._

With a start, she saw him watching her, an amused expression on his face. The mottling on his face seemed calmer now, like it changed with his mood, stilling if he was pleased. 

“Right,” he said, stretching out his long legs in front of him. 

The fireplace crackled, as he took another swig of his Firewhisky, draining his glass. Rising with a fluid movement, he reached out a hand to her. “Come, let’s go to bed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this timeline, the Equinox being in March, the capture and the torture scene at Malfoy manor hasn't happened. Hence, the allegiance of the Elder Wand never shifted from Draco to Harry.


	15. Underrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Show us you’re on our side, then?” Kingley challenged her. “Show us if you can still produce a Patronus!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like Draco, well ... sorrynotsorry. I promise, it's quick. ;-) 
> 
> Stay safe!

He returned back to Malfoy manor in high spirits, knowing that Draco would have returned too after the ceremony at Hogwarts last night. The boy had done well in his exams, so in a way, it was a shame he wouldn’t be able to put it to use. 

Sitting down in his office, humming tunelessly to himself as he sorted his research from the tedious details of lawmaking and budgeting at his desk, he waited for Draco to answer his Summons. 

Nagini slithered into his office, scales rippling in the sunlight, tongue flicking, and she hissed: “You smell of her.”

“Indeed I do,” he said almost cheerfully, and as she slid closer, head rearing, she rested her head against his thigh. 

“Are you hungry, Nagini?” he asked, petting his snake slowly. 

“Yes,” she said drowsily, preening under his touch. 

“Very soon, my dear.” 

At that, Draco knocked on the door, entering his office for the last time. Voldemort couldn’t help grinning at the boy. 

Draco swallowed, looking pale and nervous, his upper lip beading with sweat, and he murmured: “You Summoned me, my Lord.” 

“So I did,” Voldemort replied, raising his own wand, the old one he had bought in Diagon Alley all those years ago. 

An alarmed look sprang to life on the boy’s face, and he took a step back, like he was about to run. 

“ _Avada Kedavra_ ,” Voldemort said casually. The surge of power rushed through him, filling him with a dazzling light, making his eyes glaze over with the burst of blinding intensity. The green light silently lit up the room, hitting Draco squarely in the chest. 

With a loud thump, the tall youngling hit the floor. 

Voldemort patted the Elder Wand on his desk, feeling the low hum of power in it shift - _change_ \- and finally, finally adapt to him. Its allegiance had shifted. _The little witch had been right. He was now Master of the Elder Wand._

“Help yourself,” he purred to Nagini. 

She hissed gratefully, as she slid toward the silent figure on the floor. 

  
  


Xxxx

“So, I guess I’m staying here until the house is ready,” she told a tired-looking Snape, as they were again having their Saturday tea. 

“That’s not a problem,” he said heavily. “I’m staying here too.” Then he blinked. “I’m sorry - which house was that? Are you moving away?” 

Hermione felt heat rising in her cheeks. _Was she? She had offered to oversee the renovation, but would Voldemort want her to live there? Truthfully, she hadn’t thought much about it, except for securing a home for her son - a home that wasn’t a boarding school or Malfoy manor. Still, Voldemort might not want her to live there, though, cohabiting with him wasn’t something she’d look forward to either._

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I’m going to run the work on his house. Making it fit to live in.” 

Snape gaped at her, for once looking flabbergasted, his usual blank expression gone: “Riddle House? Have you seen it? That ramshackle old thing? Merlin, keeping up repairs will be the work of a lifetime!” 

She shrugged. “I’ve heard it’s supposed to be a bit dingy, but surely nothing that magic can’t fix.” 

Snape snorted. “You’d have to convert it into a magical dwelling too, you know. That’s no easy feat. And first, you need to clear out all the debris, rebuilding, refurbishing… You’ll need an army of workers to get it all done.” 

“I’ll look into it,” she said, more lightly than she felt. To change the tack, she asked: “You’re going to stay here at Hogwarts? All summer? Not in Hogsmeade with Perenella?” 

He sighed, dragging a hand through his greasy hair. “Have you seen _that_ house?” 

“No?” But Hermione could very well guess how it was. _Whatever the end result, it was surely nothing Snape would appreciate._

“It’s pink,” he said with a disgusted whisper. “Sickeningly pink, all over, except for where it’s yellow. Or any other pastel. It’s like staying inside a demented rainbow.” 

Hermione couldn’t help it, a small giggle escaped her. “She didn’t cater much to your taste, did she?” 

Snape rolled his eyes heavenward, and sighed. “Merlin knows, she has never done so, since that whole dratted Equinox affair. She may seem stupid, but she certainly know how to get her way.” 

At that, Hermione could only nod. She very well could believe that - though, it had become a poorly kept secret that Snape also visited Perenella every night. The other teachers, spending their last days before summer at Hogwarts, packing up to return to their homes for the holidays, whispered about how Snape returned late every night, face flushed and hair mussed. _So, the marriage couldn’t be all that bad - or,_ she amended, _the sex at least had to be good_. 

Snape swilled his teacup, looking distracted, almost ill with dark hollows underneath his deep-set eyes. He sighed heavily, staring into his tea like he was trying to Divine his future from the dregs at the bottom, though Hermione had a very strong feeling, that Snape might not be one to trust Divination. 

To her surprise, he muttered monotonically, like it was an inner monologue he had recited to himself often: “I never liked her. She came on to me, not the opposite way. I got carried away with the ritual mood, as there aren't that many opportunities to indulge while being cooped up at Hogwarts, but I never expected her to fall pregnant. Though I’ve regretted it ever since, I just couldn’t not do the right thing. I never meant for this to happen. Never in a lifetime. I wanted to stay true. Always. Believe me, please!” 

Hermione looked sharply at him. _What did he mean? It was obvious, he wasn’t talking to her. Maybe he didn’t even know he had spoken out loud. Who had Snape wanted to stay true to, while still admitting that he wanted to indulge in sex with others? Was there a lost love at some point in his life?_

Snape came to with a start, looking quickly at her, but she pretended nothing had happened, chewing a small scone with raspberry jam and clotted cream with gusto. The Headmaster’s sallow cheeks flushed, like he was embarrassed. 

Swallowing the delicious bite, Hermione decided to change the subject. _She should tell him about Draco, but… There was nothing either of them could do, and somehow, she felt that Snape would be upset, if he knew she had unwittingly traded his life for Draco’s. He’d feel guilty, she was sure._ Instead, she settled for something innocent. 

“So, you’ve actually been to Riddle House?” she asked. “Could you tell me more about the size of the house and the property? Because I haven’t been there yet, and…” 

  
  


Xxxx

Draco Malfoy's tragic death covered the front page of the Prophet as she sat down for breakfast in the almost empty Great Hall. All the students had left, and the teachers would all be leaving today, only the Headmaster, Hagrid and the caretaker Filch staying over the summer. 

The story was told as if the Malfoy heir had been experimenting with dangerous magic, combusting himself, causing his body to disappear, leaving the bereft parents without a body to bury. 

Hermione wasn’t exactly surprised, but she did wonder what Voldemort had done with Draco’s body. While she had no love for the Malfoys, she found it a bit over the top to deprive them of a grave. Sipping her scalding hot tea, she felt flickers of guilt racing around in her mind.

 _Had there been any way to avoid this? Could she have done anything differently?_ It felt like a pounding headache filled with recriminations, like she had been selfish, like she should have been better, more loyal and infinitely stronger, but at the same time, telling Voldemort about Draco had been a gut reaction. 

The truth was, she much preferred Snape to be alive than Draco, if she had to choose. _Then again, maybe it was the wrong choice_. To serve the Greater Good, perhaps she should have sacrificed Snape, stopping Voldemort from getting mastery over the Elder Wand. Draco hadn’t deserved this, no matter how unpleasant he had been, he hadn’t deserved to be brutally killed for Voldemort’s hunger for even more power. _Sometimes, she wished the world was a little less grey area, for dark and light to be more clearly defined. As it was, there was nothing but wrong choices._ Either Snape or Draco Malfoy would have died, and it was her that had tipped the scales in favour of Snape. Either way, she’d have condemned one of them, either by keeping silent or telling the truth, like she had chosen to do. 

The teachers were clucking, muttering about the news, and someone - she thought it might be Madam Pomfrey - exclaimed: “Only to be expected, when mingling with the likes of _him_.” 

Only Headmaster Snape looked genuinely saddened by the news. Snape was slumped in his chair, seemingly forgetting to eat and drink, just staring at the front page for a long, long time, brows furrowed like he was thinking deeply. 

“Miss Granger.” Professor McGonagall’s voice was disdainful, like she was disgusted to speak to someone like Hermione. 

“Yes, Professor?” she replied haughtily, arching an eyebrow for the benefit of the sneering Madam Pomfrey and the oblivious Professor Sprout. 

“You left some belongings in Gryffindor tower last year. The prefects came to me with it, not wanting to have anything of _yours_ in there anymore. If you would follow me to my office, please.” 

Hermione blinked. _This was the lamest excuse ever to talk to her in private_ , but she merely nodded, following the stern Professor out of the empty Great Hall, through the winding corridors, not one of them saying a word. The castle was eerily quiet after the students had left, and the only sound was the soft tapping of their feet on the sun-warmed stone floor. 

Outside her chambers, McGonagall glanced at her, looking oddly nervous, before she muttered a password to the portrait guarding her door, depicting a snoozing nun sitting in a comfortable chair. The Professor’s voice was too soft for Hermione to hear what she said, but the heavy oaken door swung open as the nun yawned, stretching out her feet, showing off a pair of spectacularly high strappy heels underneath her robe. 

The inside of McGonagall’s office looked just as before, with a large tartan rug, dark wooden furniture and sagging bookshelves against the walls. The warm sunlight shone through the windows, but nevertheless, McGonagall flicked her wand, lighting a fire in the grand fireplace, before striding over, pinching Floo pulver from a silver box on the mantle, and throwing into the fire. As the flames turned green, she shouted: “The Burrow!” 

Hermione gasped, as McGonagall stuck her head into the fire, saying loudly: “It’s clear, she’s here.” 

The old witch retreated hastily, and it was just a moment before Molly Weasley had climbed through, followed by Arthur and Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Molly cried out, embracing Hermione, as soot fell from her nose and hair. 

For a moment, it felt so comforting, being embraced, but then all her skepticism, her natural curiosity returned in full force. _Why had they come?_

Molly took a step back, looking at her stomach, before smiling widely. “Look, that’s a tiny baby bump! How are you feeling?” 

“Well enough, thank you,” Hermione said politely, giving each of them a small smile. In her head, the memory of a sibilant voice whispered: _You’d do well to realize different occasions call for different behaviour._

And this - the leaders of the Order calling a surprise meeting - was an occasion that she had to handle with care. _What had Harry and Ron told them? Were the Weasleys, Kingsley and McGonagall also distrustful?_ She hoped they had more faith in her, but somehow, she wasn’t optimistic. 

Then Molly stepped back, her face growing more serious. Arthur and Kingsley both stood still, faces grave, hands hanging passively by their sides. 

“Sit,” said McGonagall nervously, “please, sit, all of you.” 

No one obeyed, and the Professor just sighed, squaring her shoulders. 

Her stomach churning, Hermione decided to keep smiling. “It’s good to see you,” she said softly. _And it was, though, she now understood, this didn’t bode well._

The silence stretched into unease, and no one said a word. Molly fidgeted with the hem of her cardigan, and the only sound was the crackling of the fireplace. 

“Hermione,” Arthur said, breaking the awkward silence, “Harry and Ron are worried about you, and frankly, so are we.” 

She nodded. _This was no surprise._ “Why,” she said lightly, a touch of bitterness in her voice, “why _now?_ You knew what you sent me into, you knew which role I was to play. I’m playing it, and _now_ you’re worried?” 

Molly sighed, tears filling her eyes, and she whispered: “She’s right, oh, Arthur, she’s hurting. We’ve failed her, can’t you see?” 

Hermione gave her a grateful smile, but kept her eyes on the two wizards, though she knew, if push came to shove, it was McGonagall who’d be the greatest threat in the room. Suddenly, a shiver raced down her spine. _As if the Order would attack her? Did she really believe that? One thing was to sacrifice her like a lamb to slaughter for Voldemort’s pleasure, but attacking her was quite another level. But she wasn’t sure, and that thought was chilling._

“The thing is, Hermione,” Kingsley said resignedly in his deep voice, “magical photos can’t lie. And those images from Snape’s wedding - we can’t help trusting the evidence of that. You and You-Know-Who are far closer than we’d ever imagined.” 

“Yes,” McGonagall chimed in, her normally stern expression replaced by a bone-deep sadness. “I was very worried, seeing you with him at the end of year-ceremony. Very worried, Miss Granger, because… You acted so familiar with him, and he … let you.” 

_This was it._ With a sickening finality Hermione realized, they were now going to kick her out of the Order, rendering her sacrifices null and void. 

“Or,” she said, straightening her spine, looking them in turn straight in the eyes, her fists curling, almost quivering with anger, “I’m succeeding in my task. I’m getting close to him. He’s letting me in.” 

“And you’re letting him in!” Kingsley shot back. 

Her calm slipping, inch by inch, revealing the anger and hurt inside, she snapped back: “It’s not fair. First you ask me to get closer, then you cast me off?” 

The quick, uneasy glances between them told her everything, but somehow, they hadn’t thought the Brightest Witch of Her Age wouldn’t figure out what they were doing. 

“Darling, we’re just afraid you’ll let something slip,” Arthur said soothingly. 

Hermione snorted. “You remember he’s a Legilimens, right? I’m quite sure he knows everything that he wants to know from my mind. I can’t stop him, I’m no match for his Legilimency. And you knew that! You knew that from the start!”

Agitated, Kingsley said, turned to McGonagall: “He’ll see this meeting, don’t you see? We need to do it!” 

Blinking, Hermione suddenly understood, causing rage to flood. Voice raising dangerously loud, she almost yelled: “You’re worried he’ll see this and go after you? Cowards!” 

“No, that’s not why…” Kingley began, but McGonagall shook her head, interrupting him sternly: “Stop. Miss Granger isn’t stupid. She sees what we’re doing.” 

“You’re right,” Hermione said bitterly. “That’s it then? You’re kicking me out?” 

“No, my dear,” Molly said, “no one is kicking you out. We just want to Obliviate certain memories from you. Order secrets, things about Harry and… Making sure that secrets are kept, you know. Just relax, and… ” 

With a snarl, Hermione replied, feeling as if there was an electric charge building: “NO! No one is going to mess with my mind. I’m fine as I am, thank you.” 

“Show us you’re on our side, then?” Kingley challenged her. “Show us if you can still produce a Patronus!” 

Sliding her wand free from its holster along her arm, she shouted: “ _Expecto Patronum_!” She thought of how happy she had been feeling the bond with her baby when Madam Pomfrey had examined her, the memory of the warm feeling of love suffusing her with an aching happiness. 

But instead of her playful little otter, a large, shimmering, transparent undulating snake surged forward from her wand, curling threateningly around itself, before rearing up, sliding around in the room. 

Hermione was speechless, mouth open, but so were the others. 

For a moment, they all stood still, staring at the snake before it dissolved into mist.

The Kingsley drew his wand, two seconds before the rest of them, his voice hoarse as he gritted out: “I think _that_ proved everything we wondered about.” 

In a flash, he turned on her, but she was ready, throwing up the Shield Voldemort had taught her, before spells began raining down on her. The protective spell expanded into a dome, protecting her from all sides, like she was kept safe inside a cage. 

To her surprise, she held her own - barely, but she quickly realized that would only last so long against four of the Order’s strongest. Curses, Hexes and Jinxes crashed against her shield, making red, blue and yellow sparks fly in the room, the ricochets at times shattering parts of McGonagall’s furniture. Slowly, she was backing, retreating towards the door, but she needed her full strength to maintain the Shield. _She couldn’t let up for a second._

The grim looks from Arthur and Kingsley as they rapidly fired against her made something inside her feel brittle, almost breakable. 

McGonagall’s stern face as she methodically, impossibly strong, cast a dazzling variety of spells - _things Hermione couldn’t recognize_ \- made cracks appear in something Hermione thought might be her heart. 

But it was Molly’s sad, anguished expression as she shot curses with a surprising vehemence that made something inside her shatter. 

_Shatter - and reform. Her old life was in ruins - had been for a long time, now, and she’d have to rebuild herself. But first, she needed to get away._

The new strength she had achieved from the Equinox helped, but all her strength was poured into keeping up the protective force around her. Soon, she’d run out of strength, and with a sudden burst of emotions, she felt herself snarl: “You will not harm my baby!” 

At that, a force joined her, like a tiny, piping voice adding its own to hers, backing her up, strengthening her. A surge of wonder and love tore through her, when she realized, it was the baby. The baby’s magic - _strength like a fourth year, Madam Pomfrey had said -_ was hers to command, to protect her child and herself, and she felt almost humbled by the feeling of the love and trust the baby held for her - and how the child wanted to protect his mama. _No wonder Harry’s Mum had died for him. She’d gladly die for her son, but not today. Today, they were getting out. She projected that as strongly as she could to her baby: Mama’s here, little one, mama will save us. I love you._

The added power gave her strength to shoot a spell backwards, destroying the door behind her with a vicious Bombarda. There was an almighty crash, like a bomb had gone off, but Hermione just ducked, ran outside, still keeping her Shield up, and then casting the strongest Blocking Curse she knew against the gaping remains of the open door, the portrait with the high-heeled nun hanging in tatters against the doorframe. 

Shouts came from the inside, and she ran, ran for her life and for her baby’s life, not knowing if anyone dared chase her through Hogwarts, feet taking her swiftly up two floors, panting in front of the gargoyle guarding the Head’s office, wheezing out the password in panic: “ _Martagon Lily_!” 

The door closed behind her, and she all but collapsed on the moving stairs, taking her up to safety, to a Death Eater who’d protect her for his master. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how do you think Voldemort will react? ;-)


	16. Underdeveloped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But she couldn’t help wonder: Would Voldemort have done the same for anyone else, or was this just for her? Would he rush in to protect one of his Death Eaters? Would he have comforted any other witch in his circle, or…? 
> 
> This was a dangerous road for her thoughts, it felt like her very bones screeched a warning against it, but all the same … she wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting, kudos and everything! That means a lot. 
> 
> Please, stay safe (keep indoors, read fanfics, lol).

The winds hadn’t been fast enough, so he had whipped them mercilessly, producing a violent gale lashing at Hogwarts’ great battlements to speed up his flight. His journey had taken him less than five minutes from Malfoy manor in Wiltshire to Hogwarts. He had Apparated right into the Hogsmeade main street, making startled villagers scream as the Dark Lord suddenly, silently appeared, and now this wild flight from the village to the castle. 

_The distress call from the foetus had been alarmingly strong, making him shoot out of his favourite reading chair in his sitting room, adrenaline pumping, travelling north before he had even made a conscious effort to understand what had happened. The only thing on his mind had been a pure animalistic response to the fact that his son called for him, needing his protection, and like some mindless thing, he had come. Come for his son, come for his witch._

Alighting on the window sill at the Head’s office, the glass melted away in front of him, and he smoothly stepped down into Severus’ domain, his robes transitioning from smoke to silk again. 

His eyes, however, were all for the little witch, sitting slumped, ashen-faced and exhausted, tears falling silently from her big brown eyes. Without thinking, his feet led him to her, and he took hold of her shoulders, rising her up, enfolding her in his arms. She started sobbing loudly, crying wetly into his robe, her arms coming around him to crush herself against him, clinging to him, seeking his strength, seeing his protection. 

“There,” he murmured, silly words coming out of his mouth, like he knew anything about comforting someone - _as if anyone ever had comforted him_ \- “there, you’re safe, now. I’m here, I’ve got you.” 

“What happened?” he demanded, half to the witch in his arms, half to Severus, who was gaping very unbecomingly, fearfully, at his Lord. 

_But he really didn’t need to ask, did he? Someone had attacked the mother of his child, causing the baby’s turmoil, the surge of its magic that he had felt all the way down in Wiltshire. The danger flaring, the cry for help._

“Who was it?” he snarled, and the little witch sniffled into his chest. 

Weakly, she said: “The Order. They attacked me. Tried to Obliviate me.” 

“Did they, now,” he said silkily. _Behind his anger, satisfaction lurked. If the Order had kicked her out, it would be another nail in the coffin for her loyalty to Potter. The Order had taken his bait, but… things weren’t supposed to go this far. They weren’t supposed to attack her, but now, they would pay the price._ “Who?” 

The girl stilled, and he could feel her warring with herself if she should tell him or not. But it was to no avail, he picked her mind as easily as ever. Lifting his head, he stared straight at Severus, growling a command: “Organize the hunt. I want McGonagall, Shacklebolt and the adult Weasleys. Don’t kill them. I’ll do the honours myself. No one threatens my child and my witch.” _No one. No one was allowed to lay their filthy hands on something that belonged to him!_

“Yes, my Lord,” Severus said, saluting him, face grim and determined. “May I involve Antonin and Bella too?” 

“Take all of Britain if you must, but do it!” he barked to his loyal lieutenant. “Though not the Malfoys,” he amended. “Somehow, they manage to destroy everything they put their hands to.” 

Snape winced at that comment, his eyes darkening with pain, remembering the loss of his godson, but he nodded, jumping from the window and disappearing in a whirl of smoke. 

_Oh, the Order would be brought down, but still, this could be useful, it was something he could work with. Yes, he could be patient, waiting for his revenge. McGonagall, Shacklebolt and the Weasleys would die for this, though perhaps not_ **_right_ ** _away._

Voldemort looked down at the little witch, still sobbing uncontrollably into his chest. This was an opportunity to exploit, to use her emotional state to gain more of her trust. 

Thinking for a moment, he decided to continue with the strategy of ‘comfort’ _. It was basically the same thing as calming someone down, and it would serve his needs as well as hers. He was well aware of his very limited grasp of this, but if anything, he was good at pretending. Had always been, really. Well, he could curb his anger for the moment, to work off some steam on a few Muggles later on._

Voldemort gathered her up in his arms, lifting her. She was still a lightweight, the swell of her stomach barely visible, and he carried her over to the Head’s chair, sitting down with her in his arms, her legs sideways over the armrests on the chair, his head resting on top of her riotous hair. 

Slowly, her crying abated, and her breath became more even. The pleasant scent of her permeated the slits of his nose, and he thought vaguely there was a familiarity to it, now: _His favourite ink, old parchment and moonflowers, perhaps a whiff of rich vintage Port._

Sighing into her hair, the smell bringing an odd sort of contentment to him, he said with no small amount of satisfaction: “They’ve abandoned you, left you to your own devices.” 

She made a small snort, that drowned in a hiccup. “No, they think I am with you.” 

“So you are,” he purred, relishing the fact that she was loyal to his line. “You _are_ with me.” 

She didn’t answer that, but the turmoil in her mind told him, she wasn’t ready to accept what had just happened. She had to think through it, process it, but he was very sure which side she’d eventually end up on. _Hermione Granger was his. She was valuable, and would help him take over the world. He was going to turn her into his top lieutenant, maybe even…_

Murmuring into her hair, he said: “Let me in again. Show me what happened.” _Why was he asking? He could take anything he wanted, but right now, he didn’t feel like it. Odd, but he put that thought at the back of his mind, to be examined later._

The girl swallowed, before lifting her eyes to him, liquid golden-brown meeting his red. _Asking was good, then, building her trust._

He slid into her mind, and the memory rushed towards him, clear and detailed, already organized, like everything he had seen in her head. They had ganged up on her, after she had refused the Obliviate, and he couldn’t help grinning, as he saw her Patronus. _That truly proved her loyalty to his line. Her loyalty to his son would be unswerving, and soon, it would include himself too._

Moving forward in the scene, he calculatingly noted what they said, what they started to throw at her, spell after spell, four adults trying to overcome a pregnant teenager. 

Then, he felt a small jolt shooting through him, shock making him suck in his breath at what he was seeing as the fight unfolded. 

The girl lifted an eyebrow in a silent question. Voice curiously thick, he told her what she obviously hadn’t realized at the time: 

“Girl, they were trying to kill you. All of them. Those Curses… had any of them hit you, you would be dead or dying by now.” 

She gasped, hands jerking to her stomach in a protective gesture. 

“The baby too,” he added. 

Her eyes turned stormy, darkening, and he could feel her magic gathering. 

“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “You’ve exerted yourself enough today. You did _fine,_ Hermione, protecting yourself and the baby. In fact, you can be proud of yourself. Not many would have escaped what they unleashed upon you. Don't worry, I will take care of this.” 

Her mouth opening in wonder, anger forgotten, he almost smiled by how easily she was distracted by praise. _He’d have to remember that for later. Also, that she liked him to use her first name._

Running his hands over her stomach, he checked the baby. It was fine, seemingly, showing no aftereffects of activating its magic this early, the pulse of its power steady and strong still. 

“How did you know?” she asked, burying her head in his chest again. 

“I felt the baby,” he said curtly. “There was a … distress call.” 

“Oh.” She pondered that for a moment, before saying curiously: “Have you felt it before? I mean, the baby reaching out for you?” 

Reluctantly, he replied: “One time. It was happy. Very much so.” 

“Happy?” she said with surprise, lifting her face to him. “Why - when was this?” 

“It was a few days before Severus’ wedding. In the middle of the day.” 

“Oh,” she said, a sudden blush on her face. “Oh, I think I know why.” 

Cocking his head, he waited for her to explain, but she looked like she was struggling to find words, her face heating with embarrassment. 

“Show me,” he said impatiently. 

She licked her lips, but nodded slowly. He dipped into her mind, seeing the examination made by the school nurse, and her own, powerful surge of emotions towards her child. 

Earlier, he had seen her shift of loyalty, but he hadn’t paid attention to the details. Based on the flush of embarrassment on her face and her squirming in his lap, the girl obviously didn’t want him to see that she had threatened the school nurse, feeling insulted because they didn’t think she’d be able to harm them without his backing.

That made him grin _. He felt sure she’d do marvellous curse work on her own, if given the right reason to do it. But the baby’s reaction…_ He supposed her acknowledging the baby, telling it she loved it, would be the reason for the baby’s enthusiastic response. Still he was surprised: “The baby reacted to you. The baby _loves_ you.” 

Her temper flared again, and she snapped: “Why is that so odd? I’m his mother, right?” 

Voldemort almost floundered, and his reply came slow and uncertain: “Yes, well, but… It’s _my_ son too.” 

He didn’t really know what he had meant by that. _Did he expect his son to not love his mother, being just like himself, not bothering with other people? Or… Did he want the baby to love him too, and more than its mother? Maybe the child did love him. It had reached out to him, made him rush in on a saviour mission. But his son hadn’t needed him, being saved by his very competent mother, and … by its own power._

With a surge of pride, he realized, his son was already well on his way to be self-sufficient. _Just like himself._

Xxxx

Voldemort had left, and she was sitting in her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest, her rooms warded with the strongest wards she knew. _Plus the new warding he had taught her before leaving, his red eyes giving her a calculated glance, before showing her a spell that would incinerate anyone trying to enter without her leave._

She had tried to contact Harry and Ron, but there was no answer on the coins with the Protean Charm. Her questions had turned to pleas, asking if they had known, if they were in on it, if they truly had let her go, if they had turned her out, given her up. 

The silence told her all she needed to know. 

Through her anger and despair, she still couldn’t help worrying. _What would the boys do? Harry had been pending between the Weasley family, McGonagall and Kingsley, using their homes as places to stay. Would he realize that Voldemort now surely would keep tabs on Bill and Fleur as well as George and Fred? She supposed Harry could always go Muggle, though that would be a bit of a stretch for Ron. No matter that, the risk for Harry being caught by Voldemort had just multiplied, and she had no way of helping them - not that they would want her help._

Shivering, though her duvet was tucked around her, she felt ice-cold. Lost, like she had suddenly become an outcast, like she was evil, like she belonged to the dark side. _What had really happened today?_

She took stock, trying to rationalize her swirling emotions, fighting the despair threatening to flood her. _The Order had attacked her, trying to kill her, and she had saved herself, solely by the Shielding Voldemort had taught her earlier and with the help of her unborn son’s magic. Snape had been instantly alert, warding his chambers, ebony wand tracing intricate protective spells, and then within minutes, Voldemort himself had come rushing in, ready to defend her._

 _And he had comforted her. There was no other word for what had happened. Lord Voldemort had_ **_comforted_ ** _her. After Snape had returned, reporting that patrols had been sent out, Voldemort had followed her back to her chambers, then left, for the first time without demanding sex. In fact, she had felt oddly … safe. He had been almost … caring, if that word was possible in relation to him._

Sighing deeply, she felt as if her world had been turned on its head. Those who were supposed to be on her side weren't, and those who were her enemies had been ready to protect her. _But she hadn’t needed anyone. No one, but herself and her son. And a bit of knowledge from the Dark Lord._

But she couldn’t help wonder: Would Voldemort have done the same for anyone else, or was this just for her? Would he rush in to protect one of his Death Eaters? Would he have comforted any other witch in his circle, or…? _This was a dangerous road for her thoughts, it felt like her very bones screeched a warning against it, but all the same … she wondered._

Patting her stomach, sending all her love for the tiny, hard bump that was her son, she curled up into her great bed, falling asleep far quicker than she had imagined. 

Xxxx

Over the next few days, she vowed that she’d ask Voldemort - no, _beg him_ \- to spare the life of the quartet from the Order. After what had happened, the Weasley parents, Kingsley and McGonagall were now considered outlaws, with a hefty bounty to anyone that apprehended them, as well as rewards for those who had information leading to their whereabouts. But she thought they were far too important to be killed, no matter how much they had broken her trust. _Because they had. She was on her own now, truly, but she wanted the Order to succeed still, for Harry to kill Voldemort._

Snape obviously thought she needed a distraction, so he let Perenella visit her every day, allowing his wife to visit the grounds, as Voldemort had instructed him to not let Hermione leave the premises. 

To Hermione’s surprise, the girl’s chatter was soothing. It took her mind off the rather heavy questions tumbling in her mind. The two of them took long walks in the Hogwarts grounds, spending time outside in the warm July sun. Hermione’s face became a tanned golden with a light dusting of freckles across her nose, but Perenella slathered thick layers of Sunscreen potion on her skin, explaining that as a redhead, she only got sunburns. 

Taking her arm, Perenella dragged her down in the shade by one of the great willows by the lake. “It’s so warm,” the girl puffed, “and I’m so tired after last night. Severus kept me up until half past two.” 

Hermione felt her eyebrows arch. “That’s … late,” she said lamely. _There was truth to the rumour of Snape taking advantage of his marriage, then._

“Yes,” the girl yawned, pushing her thick red hair back from her face. “He’s …” her voice lowered to a whisper… “insatiable. I mean, it’s been every night, and he can go for hours. It’s big, too. A little too big.” 

Gaping, Hermione felt a blush form in her cheeks. _These were things she didn’t want to know about Severus Snape. Not when he was merely her bad-tempered teacher, and not while he was her … friend._

“Wow,” she said, even more lamely. 

“Yes,” Perenella chuckled wickedly. “Who knew? All that time in his classroom, and he proved to be a stud beneath all those layers of clothing. So, tell me, how’s the Dark Lord?” 

Hermione felt like she was burning up with embarrassment, but she choked out: “Better than I would ever imagined. Rough, but …. attentive.” 

“Oooh,” Perenella breathed out, “he makes you come, doesn’t he?” 

“Ummm, yes.” Hermione really didn’t want to go into any details for what she did in bed with Voldemort, but she knew these situations demanded that you’d give _something. A confession for a confession._

“Sevvie does too at times,” Perenella said pensively, “but not all the time. Often, it’s just about him. And…” her voice suddenly dropped, her normally cheery face looking sad, “sometimes, he whispers another name as he comes. ‘Lily’, he says. ‘Always Lily’.” 

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. _Lily… There was something familiar about that. And those things he had muttered to himself, about a betrayal…_ Suddenly, the realization hit her, like a lightning strike. _Lily! Lily Potter! Snape grew up with her. She had red hair and green eyes. Dear Merlin, he was in love with Harry’s dead Mum? But to say her name during sex with his unsuspecting wife..!_

To Perenella, she said, a bit harsher than intended: “That’s really low. You should ask him to stop doing that. You deserve better!” 

Xxxx

The evening was starry, and the flagstones in the Malfoy gardens were still hot from the warm day, Humming insects were flying to and fro as the air grew slightly colder with the darkness, and the scent of Narcissa’s flower beds were overwhelming. 

Bella, Antonin, Augustus and Severus were keeping him company, and the cool, white wine in his tall glass was beading with dew. _It was an excellent vintage, a Sorcerelle Grand Cru d'Arbois, and the rich, fruity taste was perfect for such a warm summer evening._

Nagini was napping on the warm flagstones, still full from her large meal the other day. She much preferred quiet in the days following a meal, her digestion working slowly. 

“They are, of course, quite good at hiding,” Antonin said. “I believe they’ve hidden themselves in the Muggle world, probably Transfiguring their looks.” 

Bella sneered. “I suppose Arthur Weasley is happy then, Muggle-loving scum that he is.” 

Shaking his head, Severus intoned: “I don’t think they would be able to successfully hide amongst the Muggles, because for all their interest in the Muggle world, they would stick out too much.” 

“What do you suggest, Severus?” Voldemort drawled lazily, dragging a finger through the dew on his wine glass, circling the rim.

The man shrugged, looking more tired and drawn than usual, like he had completely stopped sleeping. “I would rather think they had gone into hiding in a remote place, somewhere in Scotland or Wales, making a safe house out of a cottage. Though I agree with Antonin, if they could pull it off, hiding in a big city like London, Birmingham, Leeds or Manchester, that would be sensible hiding places. Still, my proposition is to scour the mountainous regions. I’m sure Minerva McGonagall would prefer that to a city, no matter Weasley’s …. proclivities.” 

Bella shrugged, pulling her mass of hair away from her bare shoulders. “It would be a stretch to our forces, if we were to continue doing both.” 

“I haven’t heard anything through the Ministry,” Augustus said silkily, stroking his short beard. “But I do know, most people are appalled that they actually attacked a pregnant girl. They thoroughly discredited themselves. The Order doesn’t garner much sympathy these days, while you and the girl, my Lord… “ Augustus stopped, peering curiously at him, before finishing: “... I must say, my Lord, when you proposed to use the girl in this way, for your image, I didn’t think it would work. But it does, my Lord, the people love it. It was just what people needed to believe in you, it seems. I salute you, my Lord, this was a stroke of genius.” 

Augustus lifted his glass, nodding at him, and there was a murmuring assent from the others, except Bella. She pinched her mouth, frowning. 

Voldemort inclined his head gracefully. “Here’s what we’d do,” he said. “We concentrate our forces in investigating the rural areas. However, I want three task forces of spies, specialists in Mind Magic, searching magical communities and cities, and we’ll employ the Muggle police. And: Keep a watch on the remaining Weasley family members. We’re not bringing them in for questioning yet. That’s a threat we’ll save for later, but make sure they know they are watched. Besides, I don’t think the Order would have told them, they are fully aware of what we - I - can do with their minds.” 

“The Muggle police,” Bella whispered, disgusted, but he merely nodded at her, taking the time to explain this unusual course of action: 

“They can scan for … unorthodox behaviours … in their communities and districts. That’s not to say they will be successful, but why not use them? They’re there, ready to do our bidding.” 

“Will you meet with the Muggle Prime Minister yourself, my Lord?” Augustus said speculatively. 

Voldemort shrugged. “Maybe I should. You can, however, give him the orders the usual way, and tell him I’ll come see him in a few days.” 

His lieutenants nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer, but he caught the very similar thought foremost in their minds: _He should Glamour himself. Or else, the Muggle, a fellow named Blair, would be useless, just gibbering in panic by seeing Voldemort’s face._

Voldemort grinned, stretching out his long legs underneath the iron-wrought table. _He was quite satisfied with his body, but it might be amusing to Glamour himself to his old looks. Try it out, as it was. Maybe even see how the little witch would react._

“You know,” he confided, “I’m very satisfied the Order took my bait.” 

“Your bait, my Lord?” Antonin asked diffidently, scratching his chin. _Why the man never bothered to shave was beyond Voldemort, as Antonin seemed to be forever scratching his itchy facial hair._

“My bait,” he confirmed. “The well-publicized images from your wedding, Severus. I was hoping they would propel the Order into action, showing their distrust of the girl, and so they did.” 

Bella sucked in a breath, staring intently at him. _Like always, she was too intense, but he knew, she hoped he would tell her the girl was just a ruse. For some reason, Bella had aspirations, though he couldn’t see why. He had fucked her two or three times over the years, and that had surprisingly enough turned into an intense, decidedly one-sided adoration. Not that he minded, but sometimes, it was too … intense._

Continuing, he said: “However, I didn’t think they would actually attack her. I was aiming to sow seeds of discontent and frustration, but this was … Well, the end result is very satisfying, though I can’t have people attacking the mother of my heir. Such a lack of respect must be put down. She did fine, though, defending herself, but…” 

“Yes, we know,” Antonin said, an amused glint in his eyes. “If apprehended, we save all questioning and torture for you, my Lord.” 

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. Feeling magnanimous, he added: “You can, however, rough them up a bit.” 

Bella grinned ferally, while Antonin stroked his knuckles lovingly. Augustus, of course, didn’t like physical violence, preferring mind magic and maneuvering instead, so he merely nodded, a fixed smile on his face. Severus, however, kept his face a careful blank. Voldemort didn’t have to prod his mind deeply to learn the fact that Severus actually _liked_ McGonagall, his longtime colleague. 

Augustus offered: “The laws are all in place, my Lord, and you are well underway smothering the opposition. I would say, just a few more weeks, and then…” 

“Ready for the true takeover,” Voldemort supplied with a sigh of satisfaction. 

Draining their glasses, the wizards rose to leave. Severus excused himself, earning a lewd remark from Antonin concerning his plans for the evening that made the Headmaster scowl. Bella laughed derisively, as Severus stalked like a thundercloud down the gravel path, Antonin and Augustus following in his wake, snickering as they taunted Severus about old men and young women. 

Bella hadn’t moved from her chair, and Voldemort turned to her, seeing an expectant look on her face. “Was there something you wanted, Bella?” he said. 

She scooted her chair closer. “My Lord,” she murmured huskily, “you must be bored, using only one witch for your pleasure. May I help you, offer a little variety?” 

Tracing her plump lip with her tongue, she arched her back, showing him her generous cleavage. Behind him, Nagini rustled. 

Pondering her offer, he thought: _Maybe she was right, he shouldn’t tie himself to one witch like this. It was surely unhealthy, and he had never done so before, limiting himself to one woman. And Bella was very skilled, there was no doubt about that._

Nodding, he pointed between his knees. “Kneel,” he grated, and the witch scurried down, settling between his legs, parting his robe eagerly. 

His cock twitched as she started to stroke him, and he groaned as she put her mouth on him, wet lips suckling his head. _Still, something was off. Wrong, even. Maybe it was the ritual magic, tying him to Granger in some inexplicable way. Maybe having Bella would disturb his power renewal._

Hissing, Nagini interrupted: “What are you doing, master? This isn’t right. You should stay with your mate.” 

Snarling, he replied: “It’s different for humans, don’t you remember?” 

Bella wasn’t fazed by the hissing and spitting conversation going on, she just took him deeper into her throat. 

The snake said haughtily: “I remember. Humans stay true to their mates. You should too, no matter if you are a man or a half a snake.” 

Seeing Bella’s head bob on his cock, as she sucked him, he couldn’t muster the right amount of interest for sex right now. Shaking his head, he thought: _Better not take the chance. Because surely, this was the ritual magic telling him to stop. Nothing else. This feeling of wrongness had to be magical. Definitely._

Grabbing Bella’s head, forcing her away from him, he said coldly: “I changed my mind. Leave.” 

Her eyes glistened, big and tearful, but she knew better than to question her Lord. Nodding, she rose, and walked slowly into the house, her shoulders shaking with repressed sobs. 

Snapping his fingers, he said to the appearing House-elf: “Give me a glass of Port. The 1986 Colheita from _Vinhedo do mago.”_

Settling back into his chair to enjoy the summer evening with a nice glass of Port, Voldemort idly threw small balls of fire, zapping the flies zooming in the garden, practising his aim. Spotting a liana of moonflowers among the ivy covering the low wall around the stone terrace, the flowers just opening as the moon rose, he made a small cutting, Levitating it over. 

He drew in the scent, inhaling deeply, and the rich, dusty smell of the Port, mingling with the sweet smell of the moonflower, reminded him of the little witch. Raising his glass, Voldemort saluted Nagini: “To my mate, as you say. She’s a very good fuck.” 

  
  


Xxxx

The days went past at Hogwarts, in a blur of reading up on magical renovations and magic for ancestral homes, as well as an extensive owl correspondence with several magical building companies, plus talking to Perenella and having tea each night with Snape. 

_Perenella was very interested in the renovations, and she had given Hermione several useful tips for which companies to contact and advice on wizarding house renovations._

_“I’m brought up to run a manor, you know,” she said laughingly, before her face turned bitter. “I never expected to sit alone in a cottage in Hogsmeade. I had thought he’d let me stay at Hogwarts. I mean, running a castle is something. This” - her hands made a sweeping motion, pointing at Hogsmeade - “is not what I had hoped.”_

_“You’re not ...happy?” Hermione replied carefully._

_The woman, her waist still impossibly slim for someone almost four months pregnant, shrugged. “Bored. Lonely, I guess? The nights are well, it’s ok, but I’m by myself all day. I’m happy you’re here, Hermione,” she said, pretty face suddenly earnest. “Or else, there’s almost no one to talk to. I can’t just … I mean, my family and friends will start to talk if I visit them constantly in what should be my … our ... honeymoon. Rumours, you know, they spread like wildfire in the Pure-blood families. I can’t risk that, compromising my position. For the last three days, I’ve had dinner at the pub, just to see something else than the walls of my house.”_

Tonight, the House-elves had prepared sandwiches too for her tea with the Headmaster, and she stared hungrily at the plate, wondering if it was bordering on impolite to eat more than five. She obviously needed more food than before, and her stomach threatened to start growling. Hermione snatched a cucumber sandwich for the porcelain plate, casting a quick glance at the Headmaster, wondering if he thought her behaviour inappropriate. 

The fact that his wife had described him as a well-hung stud who whispered a dead woman’s name was very disturbing, but it was hard to relate that unwelcome image with the exceedingly formal but snarky man pouring her tea. 

The windows were open in his office, bringing in a light summer breeze, and the fresh air was filled with the sweet smell of flowers and forest after the recent drizzle. 

“The teams are still hunting,” he informed her. “Obviously, they were on the run from the minute you escaped, and so far, they’re doing a good job of hiding. I suspect McGonagall has Transfigured their looks, for an instance. The Dark Lord employs any means to find them, even the Muggle police.”

Her eyebrow climbed at that. “The Muggle police? Isn’t that a bit … _beneath_ … him?” she said with a small sneer. 

“Normally, yes,” he said, glancing at her. “For you, apparently not.” 

She snorted. “Or, for taking down the Order.” 

A wry smile passed over Snape’s face, before he replied: “That too.” 

“He’s going to kill them, isn’t he?” She bit her lip nervously. Five days had passed, and she had still not had the chance to ask him to spare their life. _What kind of deal she would have to make for him to do that was … disturbing, but she’d handle that when the situation arose._

“I suppose so,” he said with a sigh, looking older than ever. With a low murmur, he said: ”I can’t believe Minerva tried to kill you. Molly, Arthur and Kingsley, yes, but _never_ Minerva.” 

“It was the photos. They said the photos couldn’t lie, and she thought I was too … familiar … with him at the graduation,” she said despondently. “And… my Patronus had changed.” 

“Your Patronus?” Snape really looked at her then, a worried look on his normally stoic face. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ve had an otter. Now, it’s … not.” 

She didn’t want to tell him of the great snake busting out of her wand, but Snape wasn’t satisfied. 

“Tell me,” he demanded, looking intently at her. “ _Tell me_!”

Years of answering questions in his classroom made her open her mouth: “It’s a snake. A great, big snake.” 

Snape’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You’re loyal to _him_?” 

“I’m not!” she snapped, suddenly angry, “I think you know that. I’m loyal to _him._ ” Patting her stomach, she glared at Snape, challenging him. 

He breathed out, looking oddly relieved. “I see,” he said, “I suppose a mother’s love for her child could also change a Patronus. It isn’t all about romantic love, though most people believe it shifts only out of love for a partner. That child - your child - will be Slytherin’s Heir too. A snake is … very appropriate.” 

“I would certainly think so,” she said bitingly, still riled about him too questioning her loyalty. 

Snape laughed mirthlessly. “Well, at least your child stems from a respected line of powerful and intelligent wizards and witches. My child, on the other hand, will be half an _Avery._ Snobs and sycophants, thiefs, weaklings and money-grubbers, that’s all there is to them. Except stupidity. They’ve got that in abundance too.” 

“Yes, well…” Hermione said, biting her lip. _She had promised to spy on Perenella for him, telling what she said about him, but so far, his wife had mostly talked about their sex life. To broach Severus Snape’s sex life in a conversation wasn’t something she looked forward too._

“Perenella seems…” she stopped, bracing herself for his wrath, “she seems … uh, pleased with your visits, though not all the time,” she ended lamely, her cheeks burning. 

“Oh,” Snape said, an odd flush rising in his sallow cheeks, and he quickly looked away from her. 

There was an uncomfortable silence, before Hermione continued: “And shopping. Most of all, she talks about shopping, and your house.” 

Snape snorted derisively. “No surprise there,” he remarked. 

“But... “ Hermione stuttered, “at times, she seems lonely. I think … she wants you to go out with her. Parties and such. She’s getting bored, cooped up in Hogsmeade. I think she’s started to go to the pub more, just to see people.” 

Snape shook his head dismissively. “She only wants to leech of my ... status. I’m not taking her anywhere. This is all her fault. I don’t _care_ if she’s bored.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Voldemort. Is he forming some sort of attachment to Hermione without realizing it himself? Lol.


	17. Undertaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, then, and see how my father lived, and how he died.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut in the last chapter ... so I needed to redeem that. ;-) 
> 
> Hermione the House Flipper makes her entrance!  
> (Yes, a colour-coded sheet will appear at some point in the story!) 
> 
> Stay safe!

The flight was as exhilarating as last time, and she was flushed, feeling almost high as he touched down at the foot of a hill, landing her safely in Little Hangleton. 

_She had shrieked in shock, by seeing an unknown, dark-haired and tall man suddenly standing in her heavily warded chambers._

_“I’m here to pick you up,” the man had announced, one dark eyebrow cocked, as he saw her clutching her wand, her heart in her throat._

_For some obscure reason, Voldemort had been Glamoured, looking like a very handsome thirty-something, with thick, black wavy hair, dark eyes - and with a straight nose. Looking closely at him, she could see that he had the same features, but the nose, the hair and the colour of his eyes and skin did make a difference. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, and her cheeks became warm and red._

_He was chuckling at her reaction, and she felt her heart almost stutter. Handsome, yes, indeed. Those dark eyes glittered at her, making him look far too charming, dangerously so._

_“Is this how you used to look?”_

_He confirmed that by a nod, still grinning. “I can see you like it,” he stated._

_Flushing angrily at being caught out_ **_ogling_ ** _Lord Voldemort, no matter how good he looked at the moment, she retorted: “Looking like this, you’d have a much easier time taking over the world!”_

_Snapping her mouth shut, in shock of what she had just uttered, her eyes wide, she stiffened. What the hell was she thinking? There was no way she’d give advice to Voldemort on how to win the world!_

_Her expression had made him roar with laughter, before shaking his head. “No, little witch, I’m quite satisfied with my new body. I do understand, however, I could have won you over much more easily.”_

_A shimmering haze enveloped him, and he was back to his usual look: Mottled skin, red eyes, bald and lacking that beautiful, straight nose._

_She had sighed, feeling a slight but shocking disappointment, but he had scooped her up, flying out with her towards their destination._

The property around Riddle House had a large, iron- wrought gate, and a surprisingly well-kept road leading up to the tall, hulking mansion at the top of the hill, though weeds were starting to poke through the gravel. The lawns were overgrown, though it was still a visible difference between what had been flower beds or bushes and the tall grass. 

“This is going to take a lot of work,” Hermione said, surveying the house from a distance. There were missing tiles on the roof, signifying leaks, and she could also see crumbling mortar around the tall, mullioned windows. 

Voldemort shrugged. “I’ve never kept up repairs. As you can tell, I don’t set too much stock on appearances.” 

“I can see that,” she replied snarkily, staring pointedly at his silk robes, before her eyes moved over the house. A few windows were broken, and she supposed people had been breaking in. Quite simply, it looked like a veritable haunted house. _If it looked like this on the outside, the inside would be far worse. Probably mouldy, probably rotten woodwork, preferably not in the structure itself, but probably extremely unhealthy as living conditions would go. Bathrooms and kitchen in all likelihood completely ruined._

He shrugged again. “I spent some time here, before I regained a body.” 

She nodded. “How’s the inside?” 

Voldemort snorted. “You’ll see. Empty. Broken down.” 

Walking up the long drive, she could tell, he was adjusting the warding. “To let you in, unscathed,” he said, glancing at her. 

“It isn’t properly inaugurated as a wizarding home?” she asked. She had surmised as much, but it never hurt to ask. For all she knew, he had special wards in place that no one else in the world knew of. 

He shook his head. “That … hasn’t been necessary. Not before now. I never intended to live here.” 

Pursing her lips, she said: “I’ve read up on magical houses - specifically, on making a property magical.” 

“Did you find anything interesting?” he inquired lazily, looking down at her with that infuriating amusement that seemed to his mood of the day. _With a small shiver of fear, she wondered what could bring him into such a good mood. In all likelihood, he had killed someone important, or at least forced someone powerful to do something really, really bad. And why on earth had he been Glamoured?_

Grumbling, she said: “It seems like that kind of warding basically needs sex and blood.” 

“Absolutely,” he said again, his grin growing wider. 

Narrowing her eyes, looking up at him - _he was so tall, she almost had to crane her neck_ \- she replied: “The stronger the spellwork, the more blood you need, apparently.” 

Now he was almost silently laughing: “So you think I would let you slit my wrist, witch?” 

Snapping at him, she retorted: “As much as I would let you slit mine.” 

That made him laugh out loud, while she felt angry. _Like he didn’t take her seriously. Like he knew better - which, in all likelihood, he probably did. Well, she could exploit his good mood, couldn’t she?_

“Will you spare their lives? I mean McGonagall, the Weasleys and Kingsley?” she asked, quietly. 

Mirth drained from his face like a curtain falling. “No,” he said curtly. 

“Please. I don’t want them to die because of me, and...” 

He cut her off, before she could delve into her argument: “Not now, little witch, later. I’ll negotiate with you, but be prepared to bargain, girl. Think very thoroughly on what you’re willing to give - or not.” 

For a while, only the crunch of the gravel under their feet was heard, as they walked uphill. She couldn’t help thinking of the news this morning: _  
  
_

_“McGonagall Spotted in Inverness: Killing an Auror!_ _  
_ _  
_ _The former Hogwarts teacher, now turned outlaw, fought her way out of the Auror’s clutches last night in Inverness, decapitating one and severely maiming another. She escaped, Apparating off, with five courageous Aurors hot on her heels._ _  
_ _  
_ _\- We deeply regret losing Auror Ben Mellidon, says Ministry spokesperson Augustus Rookwood. Our thoughts go to his family, and Lord Voldemort and Minister Pius Thicknesse have already sent their regards to Mellodin’s wife and his two daughters. Lord Voldemort will be present at the funeral next week._ _  
_ _  
_ _Auror Fiona Nettleshack, who was hurt in the skirmish, is undergoing Healing at St. Mungo’s. The hospital informs the Prophet that against all odds, her health is improving, though she’ll lack four fingers on her left hand._ _  
_ _  
_ _\- This awful event just proves that the Order of the Phoenix will stop at nothing, says Rookwood, because they are a menace to society. Rest assured, the Ministry and Lord Voldemort spares no expense and efforts to bring McGonagall and her cohorts under arrest.”_

Hermione sighed, knowing that there was only a question of time before Voldemort caught up with the Order. And then… _At least, he was willing to enter a bargain._

“Well,” she said as they stood before the tall front doors, “it seems to have been a fine house, once.” 

Voldemort nodded, opening the doors with a small wave of his hand, and stale air seeped out. 

On the inside, it was dark, with only little light falling through the dirty windows. She lit her wand, peering inside into the vast emptiness. There seemed to be a spacious hall, with a vast stairway in the back, several doors leading into other rooms, but otherwise, it was devoid of furniture and debris. There was rotting silk tapestry on the walls, and dust lay thick, undisturbed, on what seemed to be an oaken floor with broad planks. 

“I had Wormtail clean it out, but I suppose dirt and dust accumulates easily.” His voice echoed in the large room, and he sent up a large sphere, giving off a soft light. 

As they entered, Voldemort did a small movement with his old wand - she noted, _he sometimes used the Elder wand, sometimes his own, having both strapped into wand holsters on his right arm_ \- and a small breeze rose, chasing the stale air away. 

They did a quick tour of the house, Hermione continuously making notes of what she observed. Upstairs, there were visible remains of the time when Voldemort, Wormtail and Nagini had inhabited the house. There were chairs, soot and ashes in the fireplace, as well as a bedroll in a corner. 

Voldemort looked out the window, which gave a full view of the village down below. In the distance, children were playing, and people were generally enjoying their Sunday, strolling around on the Village Green. 

Turning toward her, with what she would have interpreted as a playful look on _anyone_ but him, he said: “There’s so much dust. Do you think the Muggles in the village would appreciate dust devils?” 

Hermione couldn’t help laughing in disbelief, and he gave her a small smile, before swirling his wand in a great arch. The windows banged open along the facade, and dust gathered, shooting out the windows, forming little whirlwinds dancing down the path towards the village, leaving the air outside hazy, but the inside of the house felt surprisingly clean and fresh. 

From the village, they could hear distant shouts of surprise, and she giggled, thinking about the surprised villagers, not expecting sudden dusty whirlwinds on a clear sunny day in July. 

“You liked that, didn’t you.” It was more of a statement than a question. 

She nodded, still grinning. 

Cocking his head, leaning his tall frame against the window sill, he asked: “Did you do much magic as a child?” 

“I suppose I did,” she said, thinking of how everything had fallen into place when McGonagall had visited her to explain the Hogwarts letter. 

Voldemort nodded. “Did you know, the Trace isn’t activated before you open the letter? That’s why no one came for you. Or me,” he added. 

“I didn’t know,” she said thoughtfully. She had done a lot of things as a young child, never getting any notice, while Harry got a warning for a House-elf using magic, and later a hearing because he had to defend himself from Dementors. 

“How was your control when you started Hogwarts?” 

“Good,” she replied slowly, “I could do most spells at first try. In fact, I had my own versions of many of them.” 

Voldemort nodded approvingly. “Were any of your childhood spells harmful?” 

She furrowed her brows, peering at him. “What’s with all the questions?” 

“I want to know, did you harm anyone with your magic as a child?” 

“Yes,” she said slowly, knowing that it was pointless to deny him information. “I did. At first, I had no control, but I did defend myself with magic. No one liked me, you see, I was too clever and too odd. Sometimes, I was attacked, and then I … defended myself. I’m not proud of it,” she added hastily. 

There was a glimmer of triumph in his red eyes, before he asked: “Your Sorting. How did that go?” 

Evasively, she said: “I was a hatstall.” 

“And...?” Voldemort looked expectantly at her. 

Hermione sighed. “I think I know what you’re asking, and the answer is yes.” 

“The hat considered you for Slytherin.” The smirk on his face was maddening, and she grunted: 

“It did, but it couldn’t place me in Slytherin because I’m a Muggleborn. I was too driven and forceful for Ravenclaw, and while my loyalty is strong…” she shot him a warning glance …”I’m no Hufflepuff.” 

“So, a Gryffindor you became, but a Slytherin at heart,” he purred. 

She shrugged, not wanting to answer that. _But he was sort of right. The hat had told her that her cunning, her ambitions and her resourcefulness, even her leadership abilities, would make her a perfect Slytherin. But she had begged to be placed differently, knowing that a Muggleborn would have a rough time in Slytherin house. So much for her wishes, here she was, paired with Slytherin’s Heir instead._

Walking briskly beside him, inspecting room after room, she told him: “I’ve set up three budgets after talking to several companies, depending on how much you want to spend. There’s a low-cost, then a medium and …” 

“There is no budget,” he interrupted. 

Her face fell. “No budget? That’s… unreasonable, it’ll take a lot of time and effort for me to do this alone...” 

“I mean the upper limit,” he interrupted her again, and she felt her mouth fall open again. _If so, she could make this house look so good, it could rival Malfoy manor._

Quickly, she calculated what her luxury budget had been, then upscaling it significantly. _Yes, she’d be able to get those French carpenters specializing in magical woodwork to repair the floors, and the Italian magical gardeners famous for sculpting the Magical Senates’ gardens, as well as the German stonemasons and …_

They finished the tour in the drawing room on the first floor. It was a spacious room on the ground floor, and Voldemort looked around, smiling grimly. 

“This is where I killed my family, but I suppose you know that.” 

The tall monster of a man looked closely at her, taking note of her reactions, so Hermione tried to suppress her little grimace of disgust. 

Obviously not enough, because he was grinning at her, yellow teeth showing, as he savoured her distaste. In the sunlight falling through the dirty window panes, he looked like a nightmare. Tall, thin, much too pale, the mottling on his skin making him look almost translucent in the light, nothing at all like the inordinately handsome man he had been, once. _Still, she couldn’t help finding him oddly fascinating._

Shuddering, she turned away from him, opting to look around instead. The room had obviously been beautiful once, with tall windows rising up to the ceiling with a still beautiful stuccoed roof, there was a large, marble fireplace and what had been mosaic parquet in a deep brown wood. 

Now, it was all dusty, the floor was scraped up, the roof had a few damp patches and one of the windows was broken. There was no furniture left. 

But he wouldn’t let it go so soon. “Little witch,” he said, voice coming from behind her, very close to her ear. “I would like to show you what this room was like. How my filthy Muggle father lived, while I was raised in an orphanage in wartime London. I know you are well-read, I’m certain you’ve heard of the Blitz in ‘40 and ‘41. Out here, in the quiet, boring countryside, my father had a good life, far away from the continuous whistling noise from the falling bombs at night. He was rich, while I starved, girl. Don’t tell me you’d ever let your son starve, just because the conception wasn’t to your liking.” 

Speechless, she turned around, staring at him, and her mind supplied the answer: _No. NO, never, of course not ever!_

“Look, then, and see how my father lived, and how he died.” 

She fell into his eyes, the memory seeping into her like water through a sieve. 

_The house had indeed been beautiful. Floors gleaming, carved, heavy doors polished, and thick, velvet curtains tied back at the window. The comfortable room, warm but still airy, the pretty furniture, obviously expensive, the table set for high tea with scones and sweets, though the two men had whiskeys instead of tea, and the woman held a glass of sherry between her fingers with perfectly manicured nails._

_Their clothing was tailored, expertly made, and there was a cheery song playing, the orchestra sounding slightly tinny through the light scraping noise from the Bell gramophone in a corner._

_The two men were handsome, so very good looking, obviously strong and healthy, both tall and dark-haired, though the eldest had streaks of grey at the sides. The woman was a true beauty, though she had to be well past fifty._

_All of them narrowed their eyes at the pale young man standing in the doorway, his threadbare Muggle suit too short for his long arms and legs. Then suddenly the woman burst out laughing. The laugh was surprisingly high, cold and heartless: “Which one of you sired this one? Mind, he looks angry, but he’s the spitting image of you both.”_

_Turning to the young man, she said sarcastically: “Though you’re an obvious bastard stemming from one of these tomcats, I can tell you one thing: This family doesn’t do charity. And you look like a charity case, if I’ve ever seen one.”_

What happened later in the memory was not unexpected, the angry snarl of “ _Avada Kedavra_!” the green flash, the thumps as heads lolled on dead necks, and the harsh breathing of the young man standing in in the doorway. 

_What surprised Hermione wasn’t how good looking she found the young Tom Riddle, but the fact that she felt sorry for him. It was obvious, his paternal family wasn't worth mourning. The most shocking thing, though, was the power display. He had been so young, but still, the Killing Curse had come so effortlessly to him, and his command of the magic had been so … impressive._

“You mean arousing,” he whispered in her ear, pressing himself against her body, his erection a firm pressure at her back, and she almost whimpered, not wanting to acknowledge how she felt. _No, she wasn’t aroused by seeing the young Lord Voldemort manifesting his control over his magic, there was no way she felt that! He was a handsome young man, alright, and even better looking as an adult, but…._

Though, as his lips nibbled on her ear lobe, trailing down her neck, she couldn’t help gasping with pleasure. She shivered at his voice, as he murmured hoarsely: “I’m going to take you here, in the room where I killed my Muggle family. Fucking you, until you scream my name, my real name, not the Muggle one, and I will pump you full of me, filling you up until you’ll never feel another man again.” 

He spun her around, backing her up against the wall at the back, lifting her effortlessly up. Hermione slung her thighs around his hips, grinding against his hard cock. Voldemort snarled, and their clothing disappeared, and he was there, ramming himself inside her, thick cock filling her up, and she gasped, head banging into the dirty wall behind her, as his hands supported her bare arse. 

_Too hard, a little too fast, she wasn’t quite ready to receive him, but the slight pain disappeared all too quickly, the slide and thrusts of his cock making her slick and wet in no time._

“You feel so good, little witch, your tight little pussy around me. You’re not going to feel any other cock in your life but mine,” he growled. She felt his magic build up instantly, and a chilling feeling, like someone had doused her in ice-cold water made her shudder and gasp. 

“There, now you can’t, no matter if you should ever want to,” he groaned, and his magic filled her, took her, used her, her clit was ground against his pelvis, and she was bouncing on his rigid cock, her breath a hot panting in her ears, her magic sheating his, sliding and rubbing against his white-hot power, submitting to it, bending around him, caressing that vast reservoir of magic that had forced its way inside her, and everything was just trembling, clenching until … 

...until she fell off the cliff, feeling like she was flying free, and all she could hear was her own hoarse sobs of “Voldemort, oh, VOLDEMORT!” 

Inside her, he was jerking, his hands gripping her arse so hard, and he groaned: “Fuck, little witch, fuck, you feel so good as you come!” 

For a moment, it felt like the world stood still, he was still holding her up, but then he let her up on one side, using the free hand to pull himself out, before letting her slide down to the floor. He leaned against the wall, starting to laugh. 

“What?” she said, feeling annoyed. _Why did he laugh? This had been perfectly good sex, no reason to laugh, and he just…_

“Oh, little witch,” he said, red eyes glinting, “sometimes I surprise myself. Taking you here in this room was… Well, enough said, it was _good_. But now, I’ve cursed you to be faithful to me for the rest of your life.” 

He looked amused as he said so, but Hermione felt dread creep down her spine. _There would never be anyone but him? No one for her, but the Dark Lord?_

Blurting out, she asked: “Not even if you’re dead?” 

The sex must have been really, really good for him too, because even at the mention of his possible death, he just shook his head, still laughing, and said: “Forever. You will be in agony if you ever attempt to touch another man sexually.” 

Xxxx

He set her down outside Hogwarts, on the warm sunny grass outside the Entrance Hall. Still, he felt dazed, not really knowing what had come over him. _He had, in his ecstasy, bound her to him irrevocably, like he meant to keep her forever. The only good thing to be found, was that it was a one-way connection. Apparently, he hadn’t been so far gone in his desire that he had tied himself to her too._ **_That_ ** _would have been ridiculous indeed._

Looking down at the little witch, her face so pretty and flushed after their flight, the exhilaration after sex and then their flight shining in her big brown eyes, he said: “Until next time,girl.” 

Bending down - _automatically, without thinking_ \- he kissed her lightly, before taking off. 

  
Voldemort was way above Hogwarts, the strong winds from up high carrying him faster to his goal, before he realized what he had done. _He had caressed the girl, kissed her. It felt ... surprisingly good and natural, but still … No, it was unfathomable. Unacceptable._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Lord Voldemort really playful? I think so, in a definitely mischievous (and dark) way. As long as he can laugh at other people, confuse them or even hurt them, he can be playful.


	18. Underbidding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck him, she thought bitterly, of course he’d choose the cruelest of the Fidelity Curses to cast on her, knowing very well that she aimed to kill him. Like he thought this would change her mind! 
> 
> Huffing to herself, she rather thought he overestimated his own prowess in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for telling me how you feel about the story! 
> 
> This chapter has more smut (yay!) and trouble is brewing for Severus and Perenella (pardon the pun, it is our favourite Potions Master, after all...).

“So now you’re hiring contractors to work on the house, and you need a conference room for negotiating?” Snape’s expression seemed to be an odd mix of incredulous and amused, but Hermione merely nodded. 

“With an international Floo connection,” she said confidently, showing him her colour-coded sheet of parchment. “There’s going to be meetings throughout the week, and I’ve scheduled the Italian and Spanish companies on Monday, the French and Polish on Tuesday, the Germans, the Dutch and the Irish on Wednesday, the Norwegians, the Danes and the Swedes on Thursday, finishing with the all the Brits at Friday.” 

Snape was still looking like her plans were entertaining, albeit in a ridiculous sort of way, and he asked: “He’s really letting you go all out on this, then? This must cost a fortune.” 

She shrugged. “He said no upper limit to the budget. I’m going to take his word for it. Is that unwise?” 

At that, his face finally became more serious, like his usual mask of indifference. “No,” Snape said slowly, the words dragging out of him, “he does like to show off.” 

“So, where does his money come from?” Hermione asked. 

“I don’t really know how much he’s worth,” Snape said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “To be frank, he usually demands someone else to pay for him. For all I know, his vaults could be either empty or stuffed to the brim with Galleons.” Pausing, he asked, voice slightly choking, “Have you decided upon a … ritual … for the house?” 

“I’ve read up on it, and there are lots to choose from, each working slightly differently,” she mused. “Simple ones for protection of the house, those who had added protection for the property too, others that extend to protecting the family, rituals meant for _establishing_ a new line and finally those which makes the house sentient…”

“I’d advise you to let him choose,” the Headmaster said thoughtfully. “He probably has a very clear idea of what he wants. Though, you should show him that you’re well-read on the subject matter.”

“Well, he’s the expert,” she shrugged. _And, she definitely had planned to show off her research. She had discovered that it made him more amenable to share something of his own knowledge. Lord Voldemort seemed to like talking about magic to someone who was well-read and interested - in short, herself._

“So he is,” Snape said, before sighing. “How’s my errant wife doing these days?” 

“She’s become a regular at the Three Broomsticks,” Hermione said, furrowing her brow. “She goes there for lunch and for dinner, saying it’s too lonely sitting in your house by herself.” 

Stopping, she couldn’t help asking: “Don’t you care about her drinking so much? I mean, no one here has ever offered me something alcoholic during my pregnancy, so I assume you are aware one should be careful…”

“She does?” Snape’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I had no idea. I thought she’d be sensible enough to not… Thanks for telling me, I’ll talk to her.” 

Xxxx

Hermione found she was a born negotiator, setting hard terms for the building companies, telling them they should be honoured to get Lord Voldemort’s home as a reference for future jobs. Within the week, she had settled contracts for landscaping and gardening, masonry and roofing, carpentry and plumbing, while she still hadn’t decided on suppliers of furniture. The grand total was less than she had feared, but it was still an astounding amount of Galleons. Snape had told her, it was the equivalent of Hogwarts’ budget for two full years. 

“That’s a lot,” Perenella commented dully as Hermione told her about the figures, as they took their daily walk in the grounds. The normally cheery girl looked sullen, matching the mood of the cloudy weather, a downpour threatening in the distance. 

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked. 

“Sevvie - _Severus_ \- told me, he won’t allow me to go to the pub anymore,” Perenella snorted. “Like _he_ can decide what I do.” Green eyes were flashing, and she looked so upset and angry, that Hermione felt instantly a twinge of guilt. _She had been the one to tell Snape, but … their baby’s health was more important. Wasn’t it?_

“We had this big quarrel, and then he just shook his finger in my face, acting like I was one of his _students,_ and told me there would be repercussions if I didn’t do as he told me.” 

Hermione blinked. “He did?” she said shakily, having never thought that Snape would be that sort of man who thought he could order his wife around, threatening her even. Somehow, she felt disappointed, though … Perenella wasn’t protecting her baby like she should, if she was drinking each day. _Snape was right to be angry._

“He most certainly did, he was such an arse!” Perenella fumed, pulling her hair away from her face, winding the mass of red curls gathered in her hands into a braid, tugging at it with force. “I’ll show him, that bastard, I’m not a silly little girl he can boss around. I am a Pure-blood witch, born and bred for running a great house, not being shunted away in a small cottage, not even allowed to go out!” 

Xxxx

She had been in a state of shock and anger all week, or at least when she had been _not_ working on the grand project of making Riddle House fit for her son. The planning had consumed much of her time and energy, but in those moments she should have been relaxing or just doing a bit of light reading, she found herself … well, truly shaken. _In the beginning, just after the Equinox ritual, she had been fretting because her first time was with Voldemort, and she’d never know what a normal first time with someone she cared about would be like. Now, she was facing a situation where she’d never know. Voldemort was to be her sexual past, present and future - and he had made sure she could never have a normal relationship with anyone._

Being who she was - _Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of her Age -_ she had, of course, read up on the numerous Fidelity Curses and spells in existence. Most of them seemed to be chained to vows of marriage, and very few were one-sided. Only one lasted beyond death, and Voldemort was right: It wasn’t possible to unravel the Curse. 

_Fuck him,_ she thought bitterly, _of course he’d choose the cruelest of them all to cast on her, knowing very well that she aimed to kill him. Like he thought this would change her mind!_ Huffing to herself, she rather thought he overestimated his own prowess in bed. _Well, it was good, undeniably so, but she would rather have a free world than a sex life. The only thing was, this sounded so sad and self-sacrificial. Then again, no one would want her now, apart from him. That thought was a curious mix of disappointment and … a small sliver of satisfaction. Satisfaction that he so obviously wanted her._

Sighing deeply, she looked up, meeting a pair of red eyes. 

Xxxx

“The work will start on Monday, and it’s expected to last for three weeks,” she informed Voldemort, like she had been thinking of her project, and only that as he arrived. _But he knew otherwise, and he had to give it to her, without his Legilimency, he would have believed her._

“Then it will be ready for installing furniture, and in the end, it’ll be ready for warding. The house will be finished by the middle of August.” 

“That’s quick,” he said, looking quizzically at her. “Quicker than I expected, given the state of repairs.” 

He had found her outside, in the smaller Clock Courtyard, curled up on a stone bench, reading in the sunlight. The sun played with her hair, making golden strands stand out from the darker brown. From what he could tell, she had been reading about ritual magic again. 

The grass in the courtyard was lush and green, the fountain in the middle was clucking, and the pillared walkway around the courtyard cast a pleasant shade. 

Hermione smiled. He could tell the girl was genuinely pleased with how she had coordinated the work, making the companies agree to a strict “just-in-time”-schedule. _Or else, they’d experience a hefty contracted cut in their fees._ _Oh, she was quite the negotiator, wasn’t she? Bargaining like a Slytherin, almost._

“Well, the stonemasons, the roofing company and the gardeners start out first. The stonemasons have seven days to complete the structural part of their work, before they move on to do ornamental work on the facade. The carpenters and the plummers have fourteen days to complete everything, and then it should be ready.” 

“I suppose I’ll have to open the wardings on Monday, then. When do they arrive?” 

“Early, at five in the morning. And… you’ll need to fix them whatever international permission they need to work in Britain.” 

“At five?” Voldemort almost groaned. _To be frank, he had never been that kind of a chipper morning person. He needed his cup of tea in peace and quiet before he started his day. On Monday, if he had to get up at four to make time for tea and travelling to Yorkshire, he_ **_would_ ** _be grumpy_. 

“Yes,” she said, still grinning. “They need an early start. It’s a tight schedule. And we need to decide how we’ll use the rooms, before I can buy furniture.” 

“Use the rooms?” he said. He would have thought this was obvious, given that the building was a typical manor house, but apparently, the witch had different ideas.

“Yes,” she said, ticking it off her fingers. “Downstairs is easy, because it’s going to be a library, a dining room, a ball room, a drawing room, a music room, a conservatory and a morning room. I suppose you’d want an office too. But upstairs, we need to decide which is going to be your private office, your bedroom and mine, nursery room, my office, and what about laboratories and rooms for working out, sparring or whatever you need? How many guest rooms would you want, and…” 

She stopped, almost out of breath, but he could sense her nervousness most of all. _The girl didn’t really know if he wanted her to live there, but she had brought it to the table by suggesting it openly, now. And as her motivation for overseeing the rehabilitation was to give their child a home, he supposed she wanted to live there too. At the very least, she wanted a resolution._

Calmly, he said: “It seems like you’ve got this under control. We’ll see to it on Monday.” _The girl could stew in her insecurities a little longer._ Voldemort almost grinned, seeing her discomfort. 

“So, where do they send the bill?” she said a little grumpily, clearly not satisfied with not having an answer to her future living situation. 

Voldemort smirked. “To the Malfoys, of course.” 

Her eyebrows rose. “It’s going to be a lot,” she said carefully. “It’s going to be 105 000 Galleons for the repairs, plus whatever the furnishing is going to cost.” 

He shrugged. “Lucius will grumble, but he’s going to pay, quite happily, I think.” _Because, Lucius would give anything to get his Lord off his property. Especially after Draco’s death, though the Malfoys didn’t know exactly what had happened. Suffice to say, the Malfoys were even more afraid of him now than they had been before, and that was saying something._

Settling on the bench beside her, he put his hand around her waist, sliding upward to cup a breast. _Definitely an increase in size since the start of all this,_ he noted with satisfaction. 

Finding her nipple, he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the little bud stiffen by his touch. 

Then the girl said: “Maybe we should go inside?” 

He could sense her reluctance to leave the sunlit courtyard, but also her fear that someone would see them out here. 

“We’ll stay here,” he said firmly, enjoying the squirm that produced in her, as his other palm landed on her thigh. 

“Someone could see us!” she muttered uneasily, voicing her concern. 

“I don’t care,” he responded, kneading her inner thigh, moving slowly upwards to touch her mound. _He really didn’t care if anyone saw, he’d held enough revels with public debauchery as it was._ The memories of fearful witches, servicing their Lord while his followers watched made his cock twitch and grow. “Besides, who’s going to watch? Severus? Or Filch, or maybe the ghosts?” 

He laughed a little at that. The ghost _were_ known for peeping at times, and he remembered in sixth grade, he’d been fucking a pretty Ravenclaw Pure-blood in an abanonded classroom, as the Bloody Baron floated over their heads, looking down at them with a spark of interest in his normally blank face. As for Severus… well, he’d seen enough. Filch though, might be in for a shock. 

The girl whimpered slightly, before she said resignedly: “Can we at least be a little discrete?” 

Magnanimously, he nodded, patting his lap. 

The little witch rose, hitching up her robe, revealing a thin, short summer dress underneath, and pulled down her knickers, placing them carefully beside her book. 

Voldemort opened his robe, his cock almost at full mast, and the girl settled in his lap, her back to his chest. Pulling her hair aside, he kissed her neck, suckling the thin skin hard, giving in to the sudden urge to bruise her. She whined, arching her neck towards him, wincing as he bit down, marking her with his teeth. 

With a small growl, he parted her legs, sliding his hands up her thighs to reach her pussy, fingering her. _Of course, she was soaked. Smugly, he realized she was also turned on by being forced to do this out in the open, being made to do something she hadn’t wanted. Voldemort couldn’t help relishing the fact that the girl seemed to have a solid power kink._

Stroking her wet slit, he had her panting and moaning in a very short time. Feeling that prickling in his mind, signifying someone in the vicinity, he looked up. On the third floor gallery, overlooking the courtyard, Severus was watching them. 

Voldemort nodded to his lieutenant, signaling that he had been seen. _It was up to Severus if he wanted to watch, or if he’d leave. Either way, Voldemort couldn’t care less._

The little witch moaned, whispering his name: “Voldemort, oh, please, could you put your fingers in me too?” 

Grinning, he inched his left hand in position, pushing his middle finger into her, while his right kept stroking her clit. His cock was now leaking, wetting the back of her robe, and he could feel himself throb. _Soon, he’d have to end this._

“Ah, yes,” she panted, her moans now echoing through the courtyard, hips moving against him, trying to get him to rub her faster. But he wasn’t ready to let her come just yet. He wanted to feel her contract and pulse around him, squeezing his shaft as she came. 

As he pulled his hands away from her cunt, she whimpered in frustration, but he lifted her up, setting her down on his cock. The tightness surrounding him as she slid down was _bliss_. He groaned, throwing his head back, while the girl squealed, her own hands now working her clit. 

Vaguely, he registered that Severus was still watching, the Headmaster’s face looking slightly flushed, but now the witch was coming, clenching around him, her wet walls massaging his cock so deliciously, her back arching out, and his control snapped. 

With a roar, he slammed her down, cock jerking erratically as his pleasure burst, and he came in great spurts inside her, his magic striking hers, breaching her, entering her in a rough slide, and she received him, her magic purring against his as they both drowned in ecstacy. 

Breathing hard, he saw Severus retreat hastily, but not before he saw the bulge on the man’s robe through openings in the stone pillar railing. 

She was silent for a while, fiddling with her hair, as his cock softened inside her. 

“I meant to ask you again,” she said, “about not killing McGonagall, Shacklebolt and the Weasleys.” 

“Yes,” he said, stretching languorously, letting his cock slide wetly out of her. “I told you, I will negotiate. What will you offer?” 

The girl shook her head, whispering: “I don’t know what you could want from me.” _In her head, the thought was blatantly clear: At their first negotiation, he had asked for Harry’s life, and she wasn’t willing to accept that. Still, she wasn’t willing to give up on the Potter boy, and she really didn’t know what else he’d want._

That made Voldemort almost grin. He pushed her hair aside, nibbling at the purple mark caused by his teeth and mouth earlier. Encasing her in his arms, stroking the bump on her belly, feeling how his child lived and thrived within her, he answered, breathing into her bruised skin: “Such a limited imagination. Can you not think of one thing I would want from you, that’s not about Potter’s death?” 

Confused, she shook her head, her hair tickling his chin. 

“You’ll take my Mark.” 

She twisted around, batting his hands away from her, brown eyes flashing dark, hissing: “Never!” 

Her vehemence was impressive, but Voldemort hadn’t ended up where he was today by being intimidated by anger. He shrugged lazily. “Just think about it. What do you prefer, the Order alive and well, or dead and cold? You decide girl. Their death, or my Mark on you. You hold their life in your hands.” 

As the implications sank in, of what her choice would mean for people she still wanted to protect - _though he’d never understand how she could feel like that for people who had tried to kill her -_ he couldn’t help enjoying himself. Blackmail was a wonderful thing, and emotional blackmail was the best kind. _Yes, she’d come around, eventually, swearing herself to him._

Grandly, he said: “I’ll allow you time to think about it, but you will be ready to choose when I catch them. If you accept, they’ll go free, and I’ll show my mercy to the public, and if not...” 

Xxxx

There was no news at all about Harry and Ron, and none on the Order heads either. She tried to tell herself that no news was good news in this case, but she couldn’t help worrying. _What would she do, if Voldemort finally caught McGonagall and the others? Would she let them go to their deaths, knowing that she could save them? How could she stand by, seeing as Ron would lose his parents? But how could she bind herself to Voldemort? What did the Dark Mark really entail?_

On Sunday afternoon, she decided to ask Severus, but she also dreaded telling him about her morning walk with Perenella. 

_She had waited in the shade by the mossy Hogwarts gates for a good twenty minutes, before a bedraggled figure had come ambling along. The normally beautiful witch wasn’t at her best today, looking bleary-eyed with mussed hair._

_“Hey, Hermione,” she had said with a weak grin. “I remembered our walk a little too late, but I didn’t want to stand you up. Sorry ‘bout that.”_

_“Oh, are you feeling a little off?” Hermione had said, looking with sympathy at Perenella. Herself, she had felt very little by way of pregnancy symptoms like nausea, thanks to the potions she had been brewing for herself. Though, Perenella hadn’t complained before, but Hermione had thought that was because Snape had been brewing for her._

_“You can say that,” Perenella had muttered, squinting at the bright sunlight as she came out of the shade from the great trees along the path. “My head hurts so much, and my throat is absolutely parched.” Then she had laughed, selv-deprecatingly. “It’s my own fault of course, for drinking so much at the pub last night. I can’t remember how I got home. Or when. Serves him well, when he’s being such an arse to me.”_

Sipping at her tea, Hermione mustered all her courage, deciding to ask the Headmaster about the Mark first. _Chances were, he’d be so angry with his wife, she wouldn’t get anything else out of him after she had told him. Better save that for later._

“He’s set demands for not killing McGonagall and the rest,” she began, and the Headmaster’s face split into a sardonic half-grin. 

“No surprise there,” he muttered, sipping his own tea, black eyes watching her carefully. 

“He’ll spare their life, if I take the Dark Mark.” 

Snape coughed, almost spitting out his tea, before he shook his head. 

“You shouldn’t,” he said curtly. “It isn’t worth it.” 

“Not even for saving four lives? McGonagall, Molly, Arthur and Kingsley?” she asked, but the Headmaster looked away, like he didn’t want to meet her eyes. 

No matter that, Hermione pressed on, because she needed answers. “What does the Mark do, except for Summoning people?” she asked. 

“That’s bad enough, isn’t it? Wherever you are and whatever you’re doing at the time, he can track you or order you to join him,” Snape said darkly. “Besides, he can also communicate with you in a fashion through the Mark. It’s like a long-distance version of Legilimency, though his access is more limited. By that, he can also feel if you're loyal, even when you’re apart from him.” 

Hermione nodded, but then she ventured a question. _There was something she had been wondering about… At times, Snape acted like he wasn’t quite the loyal Death Eater he pretended to be. Was he really..?_ “That is, if you aren’t an Occlumens?” 

Snape glanced at her, face a blank mask, before saying: “You have to be a very good Occlumens indeed to fool him.” 

“I suppose so,” she said blandly. Their eyes met, both of them wary, both of them suspicious. 

For a moment, both kept still, and she realized, if her theory was right, Snape would never confirm it, as long as **she** wasn’t an Occlumens. _Because Voldemort would pluck it right out of her brain, and then Snape would be dead._

Sighing, she said instead: “Your wife… She was drinking at the pub last night. A lot. I know you talked to her last week, but it seems like she only got angry.”


	19. Undersaturated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her mouth felt dry, and his fingers, tipping her chin up, felt like flames caressing her skin. 
> 
> He smiled, red eyes cold, contrasting the heat of his touch, and said: “You don’t have to answer yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added tags for spanking and orgasm denial... 
> 
> Most of you were rooting for Team No Dark Mark, and the decision has yet to be made. *grins* 
> 
> This chapter is all Hermione and Voldemort, but I promise, there'll be more Snape and Perenella later on.

Voldemort felt angry from the beginning, dragging himself out of bed at four, having his morning tea far too early, before Apparating from just outside the Hogwarts gates to Little Hangleton, Yorkshire. Nagini had just hissed sleepily at him as he dragged himself out of bed, with a curious comment he chose to not think too much about: “Foolish male.” 

At the gates, he was met by the sight of the little witch, chattering happily with a gaggle of workers.

“There you are,” she chirped, beaming at him, like being awake at five in the morning, moving about in the cold morning mist was something to be happy about. 

“Morning,” he said curtly, but as the workers knelt in front of him, chorusing “My Lord,” he was slightly mollified. 

“These are the Italian gardeners, _I Giardinieri Magici_ , the German stonemasons _Die verzauberten Steinmetze_ and the Irish roofers, _Daingean Agus Tirim,_ ” she said, introducing the workforce. 

He grunted, surveying them thoroughly. _They seemed like a competent gang, and he grumpily realized, the witch had found people who’d know their way about magical house building. He wanted to be angry, he wanted something real to rage about, not just this petty … morning mood._

In the end, he grumbled, lifting the wardings: “I bid you safe passage on my property. The warding will remain open to you until my witch says otherwise.”

“Yes, my Lord,” they muttered, turning to enter the property for the long walk uphill. 

Just to get that anger out of his system, he grabbed the little witch as she was about to follow the workers up to the house, and took off with her to his favourite moor, aiming to vent some steam. 

“Attack me,” he hissed at her, as he let her down, but at first, she merely blinked. 

“What - why are we here?” she asked. 

“Attack me, or I’ll attack you,” he said irritably. 

She was obviously confused, but luckily for her, she decided to obey him, by lobbing a medium-strength Bombarda at him. 

“Harder,” he snarled, the pretty blue lights flashing against his shield. 

The girl countered with a green, foul-smelling Ear-Shriveling-Curse. 

He had to admit it was a good cast, but still he taunted: “Is that all you can do, witch?” 

Her brown eyes flashed angrily, and he knew, he was riling her up. But that was rather the point. 

Another volley of curses hit his shield, and he enjoyed the flexing of his magic, as a series of Expulsos, Blasting Curses and Body-Bind Curses impacted. His magic stretched, like a snake basking in the sun, meeting her power head-on, his Shield holding firm against her attack. 

She looked determined, casting Curse upon Jinx at him, keeping up a good level of strength for quite some time. Voldemort felt his mood was improving by each Curse he blocked. _Nothing like a magical workout to burn his frustration._

Then, she got tired. 

He could almost see it in her mind, the internal discussion, before she somehow decided, she’d throw Unforgivables at him. A series of glaringly red Cruciatus’ came barrelling at him, deflected by his shield, before a strong, well-formed Imperio followed. That one, he let through the Shield, instead resisting it with his mind. He knew what she’d try next, and… though he felt astonished by her daring, he also felt partly amused by it. _But of course, he’d cut her down before she could attempt anything._

Voldemort felt her anger, rage and despair rise, like a tidal wave threatening to spill over, before she gathered her magic, using him as a focal point, and then she shouted, wand hand trembling: “ _Avad_ …” 

He brought his power down on her, smothering her will by lashing out with his silent “ _Imperio!”_ Her eyes glazed over for a moment, before she crumpled to the ground. 

Stalking over to fallen form, feeling very satisfied, he lifted her in his arms, flying back to Riddle House with her. 

The fight had worked, improving his mood, but he would have to teach her to not use the Killing Curse in a sparring session. _The Killing Curse was out of bounds, because there was no way to deflect it. It was for killing, simply put. He knew she would never manage to kill him, no matter how she tried, but it seemed she had to learn. Maybe it was time to punish her. Lightly, that was, because of the child._

Xxxx

She woke up, like from a deep sleep, her cheek resting against Voldemort’s broad chest. Drowsily, she realized he was carrying her, legs resting over one of his arms, while the other arm was wrapped around her back in a sort of bridal carry. Blinking in confusion, she almost didn’t recognize Riddle House in front of them. 

The scaffolding had already risen, and her workers were climbing around, securing the scaffolds to the house, and they were busy Levitating mortar, brick and other materials. 

The great entrance doors swung open before them, and he took her inside, moving towards the great staircase. 

“Um, what are we doing here?” she asked, still feeling a little lost. 

“You wanted to go over the floor plan for the first floor,” he said curtly. 

“Oh, that’s right,” she muttered, still disoriented. 

He set her down on top of the stairs, before he moved forward through the wide corridor, the dark, carved wooden walls making the corridor gloomy, now that the windows were covered up by the scaffolding outside. “Can you walk by yourself?” he asked, calling over his shoulders. 

“Mmm, yes,” she said a little shakily, gingerly taking one step forward, before curiosity took over. “What did you do to me? Why am I feeling like this?” 

The tall wizard turned, black robes billowing around him, walking backwards for a few steps, and gave her a sinister grin. “I took control of you.” 

She felt her eyes bug out, as a horrified squeak escaped her. 

“Don’t try to cast the Avada at me again, witch,” he said curtly, “or else I might do worse.”

“No,” she muttered faintly. “I won’t.” _At least not when you’re ready for it,_ she amended to herself. _It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, and she couldn’t resist the opportunity. Though, she should have realized, he’d know how to defend himself. The implications of cutting off the Killing Curse by an Imperio was … baffling. She would have to do more research on that._

She trailed after him, and he pointed out a set of large, connecting rooms overlooking the gardens for his private office and laboratory. 

“This could do as a nursing room,” he said, peering critically into a large room, with an adjoining smaller chamber. 

“Ok,” she duly noted. 

“It can be connected to the next room too, making room for more children,” he said. 

“More children?” she asked weakly. “Isn’t one enough?” 

He snorted. “Look what happened to the Malfoys. No, there needs to be at least two.” 

Hermione felt her heart hammer, and there was a rushing sound in her ears. _Did he mean for her to be the mother? Would he choose another witch? Hopefully, he would, her brain supplied in a fervent, rational wish, but inside her stomach, something feral growled at the thought. At the same time, she thought it rather rich that_ **_he_ ** _blamed the Malfoys for lacking an heir, like the Malfoys had been careless to a fault, somehow._

Voldemort strode forward, pointing at different rooms, indicating bedrooms and bathrooms, obviously meant for guests, excepting the room he and Wormtail had stayed in earlier. “That’ll be Nagini’s room,” he remarked, “it’s warm and nice. She doesn’t require much furniture, but she could use a tree for sleeping. Make it real, not those fake things you can buy at that Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley. She also likes dry leaves. And soft blankets.” 

At last, he stopped at the largest rooms across the stairs. “The master suite,” he said, nodding to himself. Turning to her, he said: “Get inside.” 

She stepped ahead of him, inside the large, empty room with tattered blue silk tapestries. 

“I want it done in Slytherin green, plus black, and there might be silver trimmings, as long as it’s tastefully done,” he announced, looking around in the room. “The adjoining room will be the dressing chamber. Remember, I want a very large four-poster. Mahogany, or lacquered in black. Yes, just order it in black. It needs to be comfortable, and only silk sheets. Absolutely no cotton whatsoever. ” 

“Ok,” she said, half-amused that he had such particular tastes. 

“Will you be able to fit your clothes in there, or will you require a dressing room of your own?” He cocked his head, looking at her. 

_And there it was. He didn’t only mean for her to stay in the house, she was to share a room with him._ Hermione felt her face flush an unhealthy shade of red as a storm of different emotions raced through her: _Disgust at the prospect of sharing her bed with him in the future, anger that he had withheld this piece of information from her, rage at herself for wanting an answer from him, disappointment that a part of her felt glad she was to sleep in his room, relief that he wasn’t planning, at least not yet, to cast her off to find other witches._

Walking on unsteady legs towards the dressing room, she peered inside. It was large, with room for several cabinets and dressers, so she shrugged, like this held no importance to her. “I guess so,” she said calmly. 

But she couldn’t fool him. Voldemort grinned, and beckoned her over to him by crooking one long finger. 

Reluctantly, she stopped in front of him, craning her neck to look at him. 

“Little witch,” he said, voice husky, “you can have this honour if you want. If you want to take this chance, take my Mark, I’ll install you here with me. It’s convenient for me, and it fits with my plans.” 

Her mouth felt dry, and his fingers, tipping her chin up, felt like flames caressing her skin. 

He smiled, red eyes cold, contrasting the heat of his touch, and said: “You don’t have to answer yet.” 

Then his fingers tightened, gripping her jaw, and he muttered: “You shouldn’t have tried to cast the Killing Curse, girl. It cannot be stopped, and it has no place in sparring, no place at all if you don’t mean it. I think you know that, and I need to punish you for even trying.” 

Gasping, she tried to back away from him, her mind supplying a series of horrors: _What would Lord Voldemort do if he was to punish someone? Surely, the Cruciatus, or something equally dangerous and painful. But the baby!_

He shook his head. “No, little witch, you won’t get away from me. Though you’re right,” his mouth grimaced in displeasure, “I cannot punish you the way I usually would. That means, I need to get creative.” 

She screamed, as her vision decreased, seeing only those glowing red orbs that were his eyes... 

_… the chains around her ankles were chafing her raw, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that He allowed her to sit at His feet, resting her head against His leg. With adoration, she stared at her Master, trying to sit still, to be a good girl for Him. If she did what he wanted, He might reward her by fucking her mouth._

_Her mind felt empty, dizzyingly so, like there should have been more in there, except her love for her Master. The Master was wonderful, and she was undeserving of His grace. Her eyes dragged across His pale face, the red eyes staring coldly at the kneeling supplicants in front of them. She felt happy, knowing that He had deemed her good enough to sit on the daise with Him, while they - His Death Eaters - had to stay on the floor below them._

_Her Master petted her hair absently, and a tingling heat shot through her body, making wetness pool between her legs. Preening, she stared haughtily at the Death Eaters bending their knee below, safe in the knowledge that her Master had exalted her, letting her sit naked by His feet._

_One of His hands came down, fondling her right breast, teasing her nipple, and small pants and gasps escaped her. She knew very well, if her Master wanted it, He could make her trash and scream His name in front of all these people, either in pain or in pleasure as He wished, but nevertheless, she would be eternally grateful that He turned His attention to her. He was her sun, her moon and stars, and she was in orbit around Him._

_He pulled at her nipple, making her arch her back, her sex needy for His big cock, and when He murmured: “Patience, my sweet,” she almost exploded in pleasure. Open-mouthed, she stared at Him, taking in His statuesque bearing, His height and broad frame, and she couldn’t help realizing, she loved Him, would do_ **_anything_ ** _for Him, if He’d only show her a scrap of attention…_

...coming to herself, she moaned in horror: “No, no, no, what did you do to me? This was … awful!” Tears fell from her eyes, and she clutched her head, feeling a phantom pain pounding in her skull, but embarrassingly enough, her sex was throbbing, and she was practically dripping between her legs, just like she had been in that nightmarish vision. _A living hell, that's what it was. Apparently, even though this was a trick of the mind, it could affect her body._

“This is how it could be, if I took over your mind and body, using the Imperius Curse on you,” Voldemort said, eyes staring coldly and calculating at her. “You’d adore me, no matter what I did…” 

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, shivering with disgust, “but why? You would turn me into a mindless, simpering idiot. Is that really what you like?” 

At that, Voldemort grinned. “No,” he replied, “not at all. But you must see the difference. Obey me, follow my lead, or I can take your mind away from you, without hurting your body. And you would thank me for it.” 

She grimaced, the pain in her head receding swiftly, but Voldemort stepped closer to her, a firm hand gripping her hair, tugging it, making her crane her neck to look up to him. 

The desire she saw in those red eyes almost scared her: A desire to dominate her, to hurt her, to fuck her senseless, to have her, in every senes of the word: Mind, body and soul. 

Shivering, she wet her lips. 

“My pretty little witch,” he murmured, “you’ll look so good when you cry for me.” 

Casually, he Conjured a high table, turning her around to bend her over it, pushing her shoulders down. Her arms were snapped to the table by invisible restraints, and her clothes disappeared on the way, as one large palm kneaded her arse forcefully. 

“You will count,” he hissed in her ear, and to her great shame, the idea of being so subjugated made her sex clench almost painfully hard. 

The warmth of his hand left her arse, returning with a resounding smack in the empty room. She started forward, wincing, and his other hand tugged painfully at her hair, arching her head backwards. 

“One,” she whimpered, feeling the burn left by his hand. _This wasn’t a playful swat, he meant for it to hurt. Still, her arousal was climbing._

In quick succession, he doled out nine more, making her whine, almost sob, but at the same time, she needed to rub her thighs together, trying to appease the throbbing in her sex. Writhing her hips slowly, she was stopped by his hand on her hip. 

“Did I say you could do that, little witch? You’re not to tease yourself. Today, you’ll learn what it means to obey your Master.” 

“Ooof!” The next ten strikes were harder, and she was crying now at the burning sensation, her skin feeling all hot like it was aflame, but still, it felt so good, and she was wondering if she could come from this, shatter by the punishing smacks he left on her abused arse. 

As she almost shouted “Twenty!” he stopped, rubbing her skin, her thighs, and as his hand moved between her legs, she almost whined, like she was beside herself. 

Slowly, methodically, he explored her wet folds, and she was almost humping his hand, desperate to get relief. 

Voldemort chuckled, a slow, lazy laugh that made her gasp, but he said: “No, no, you’re not to come. I won’t let you, today, for being such a bad girl, trying to throw the Killing Curse at me.” 

At that, big fat tears dripped from her eyelashes, and she whispered: “Please, please, I won’t do it again.” 

“I didn’t hear you?” his voice was wickedly amused.

“Please, let me come, oh, please, I promise, I won’t do it again…!” 

“What did you call me?” he asked, his middle finger teasing her entrance. Every time she tried to impale herself on his finger, he removed it, making her grunt in frustration. 

“Please, oh, my Lord?” she whispered reluctantly, hating her own uncertainty, disgusted by her too-eager body and her willingness to please him. 

“That’s it,” he crooned, “but you’re still not allowed to come.” 

Another ten strikes met her abused backside, and she was now panting, her heart hammering from the confusing mix of pain and pleasure, but then he stopped. 

“You won’t sit down tomorrow,” he purred. “You should see your arse, bright red, almost purple in places.” 

Tugging at her hair again, he made her rise up, her body stiff from being bent over for so long, and then he turned her around. 

“I knew it,” he whispered, red eyes glittering strangely elated at her, sadistically, “you would look so good in tears.” 

Hermione was certain, her face was just red and puffy, but it didn’t matter at all, because all she needed now was to come. She was squeezing her thighs together, trying to soothe the throbbing ache. “Please,” she murmured again, “please, let me come, my Lord.” 

Looking up at him through her eyelashes, she tried to look as beseechingly at him as she could possibly manage. _Humiliation burned through her, but still, she couldn’t help wanting this - wanting him._

Voldemort chuckled, before pushing her back to sit at the edge of the table. She winced, as her sore arse came in contact with the hard surface. 

“I’m the only one who’ll come,” he hissed, spreading her legs wide. Placing himself between her legs, he pulled his robe apart, letting his cock spring free. To her satisfaction, Hermione could see his hands were shaking, like he was in a hurry. _He was turned on by this too. It made her feel better, like she wasn’t alone in this._

Sliding his cock through her slit, bumping her clit, made her almost see stars, but roughly, he thrust inside her with a loud grunt, filling her swollen walls, his girth stretching her. 

“Oh my Lord,” she almost shouted, feeling a tell-tale tingling in her belly, but he pinched her nipple, hard, making her squeal, stopping to oncoming orgasm by the shock. 

“No reward for you today, my pretty, only for me,” he panted, thrusting hard up into her, pounding her in a cruel pace. 

But it was so good, and she was so close, and he… 

Groaning loudly, he collapsed over her, cock jerking inside her, and she felt an acute disappointment, as his seed filled her up. “This is how you learn to obey me,” he panted. “And you’re not to come later tonight, and you’re not to Heal yourself. I will look for it in your mind, next time we meet.” 

As he withdrew, there was a rush of wetness leaving her, seeping down her thighs. 

Slowly, she found her clothing, dressing, still uncomfortably hot and bothered, not daring to look at him. _He had told the truth, he wasn’t going to let her finish. She would have to wait, or else he might spank her again. Or worse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know any German, Italian or Irish, feel free to roast me (or rather: you can roast Google translate).


	20. Underprivileged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury was flowing through her, filling her up, by the thought of this woman touching her wizard. 
> 
> In a voice still so very unlike her own, with a low, deadly whisper, she told Bellatrix: “You stay away from him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for a little drama?  
> Potential trigger: Non-graphic abuse. (No, Voldemort isn't involved.)  
> On a happier note: Nagini makes an appearance again.
> 
> Stay safe!

The next day, she could barely sit down without wincing. Her walk with Perenella was the best thing that day, apart from lying on her side to ease her abused backside. To sit or lay on her back was all but impossible, and her baby bump was by now too big for her to sleep on her stomach. 

It had been mad, trying to kill him like that. All of a sudden, out of the blue, almost on a whim, because the opportunity had presented itself on a platter. Had she really believed she could do it? She figured, to make the spell work, she must have wanted it, because intent was all. _It would have worked, she had felt it, the green flame of the Killing Curse rising in her._

In retrospect, it was so obvious he’d be ready for any kind of attack. It was a stupid decision, and it might have lost her everything she had tried to build. Oddly enough, it seemed like he was satisfied, having doled out his punishment, like he had expected her to do something like this. 

_What if she had succeeded? Would Harry and Ron believe in her again? Would the Order believe her to be on their side, and what of the Wizarding World? Somehow, she didn’t think it was that easy. She might have won the war in one fell stroke, but no one would be there to thank her afterwards. And her son … oh, her son, would have been born without his father._

Shaking her head, like she was trying to clear clinging cobwebs from her mind, she wasn’t willing to dig any deeper in how she felt about that. _And she certainly wasn’t going to examine how she had felt about him spanking her. Their magical connection must have switched off her brain, that was the only explanation for what had happened._ Swallowing, she lifted her head, catching the thin rays of the sun emerging from the clouds. 

Perenella was unusually quiet, as they strolled on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. Birds were singing in the forest, and the grass was slightly damp from the morning rain, making Hermione cast an “ _Impervius”_ on her shoes, repeating the spell for Perenella.

“Thank you,” the girl said pensively, but she walked as if she hadn’t noticed her shoes were wet. As they moved on towards the lake, Perenella said slowly: “I’ve done something stupid, and Severus will be so angry.” 

“Oh,” Hermione answered, casting a quick glance on the worried frown on the redhead’s face. “Did you go to the pub again?” 

“Well, yes, that too, but…” the words dragged out of her, before she suddenly whispered, looking around her, like someone might be listening. “I shagged a wizard in the loo.”

Stopping mid stride, Hermione stared at Perenella, astonishment and horror warring inside her. “You’re right,” she said eventually, “he will be SO angry.” 

“I know,” the girl whimpered, looking heartbroken. “I don’t know what came over me. I was drunk, angry and… well, this wizard, he was young, nice and … well, he wanted _me_ . Not someone named _Lily_.” 

Through her shock, Hermione realized that Snape could partly blame himself for this, leaving his young and attractive wife alone, just using her for sex, not really caring for her, not even bothering to spend time with her outside the bedroom. _But still, this was adultery. They had promised one another to stay true. It was not ok._

“The worst thing is, we were seen,” the girl confessed, big green eyes filling with tears. “I mean, the owner of Gladrags came in, and I’m sure she will tell everyone. She’s a right gossip.” 

“Oh Merlin,” Hermione breathed. _Snape might not love his wife, but she was sure, with rumours flying, he’d be livid._ Shaking her head, she took Perenella’s hand, imploring her: “Please, tell him yourself. Don’t let him hear this from other sources. That will make it worse!” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Absolutely. In fact, go tell him at once. Don’t hesitate, just do it.” 

“I’m so scared,” the girl wailed. “You know how he used to be in the classroom when he was angry, but being alone with him when he’s angry is even worse.” 

“Surely, you’re not afraid of your own husband,” Hermione said slowly, looking at her in disbelief. 

“Sort of,” the girl admitted reluctantly. “I wasn’t in the beginning, but lately, I… I’ve realized he doesn’t like me much. He doesn’t want me around, and … he feels like I’ve destroyed his life, I think.” Those last words came out in a small sob. 

“No, no,” Hermione said, feeling the lie keenly, “of course he cares about you. You’re his wife, right?” 

With another whimper, Perenella scrubbed her eyes with her knuckles. “He never wanted to be my husband. And I … I thought he’d come around, but he hasn’t. Not at all.” 

“He wouldn’t hurt you,” Hermione said slowly, suddenly feeling unsure. _Would he? If Snape was really, really angry? He was a vindictive, mean teacher, and his sharp tongue was infamous. No, she didn’t think he’d be violent, but Perenella was certainly in for a scolding of unheard proportions._

Shyly, a wavering smile broke on Perenella’s face, as she said: “I guess you would know how that feels, to be afraid of the man you go to bed with. I mean, everyone is terrified of the Dark Lord. But you’re right, you’re brave, like a true Gryffindor. You know what, I will tell Severus tomorrow. I can’t today, I need to work up my courage.” 

To her surprise, Hermione almost shook her head, denying that she was afraid of Voldemort, before stopping herself, examining her feelings. _By all rights, she should be afraid of him, because that was the rational thing to be. But… she wasn’t. Not anymore. He would be forever unpredictable, like when he suddenly decided to spank her, but somehow, in her gut, she felt sure Voldemort would never harm her for real._

Frowning, she berated herself. _She was a fool, because Voldemort couldn’t be trusted. Not at all._

Xxxx

“My house will be ready in the middle of August,” Voldemort said, as he had lunch with Antonin and Augustus. They were already on the pudding, and Voldemort sipped his coffee, while scraping up the last of his trifle. The heavy weight of Nagini rested around his shoulders, her snout tucked into the crook of his neck. 

“I think that would be a fine moment for making our little puppet, Minister Thicknesse, to sign over the Wizarding world to me.” 

Augustus nodded slowly, eyes with that faraway look signifying he was deep in thoughts. 

“Is it too early, my Lord?” Antonin asked, as always pushing his Lord to consider his plans. 

Voldemort shrugged. “ The sentiments in the public are very favourable, so… The sympathy after the attack on the girl has been a boost, and now the Mudbloods are running around, wagging their tongues, telling how well they were treated in the camp. As it is, all evidence points to people believing in my so-called redemption, thanks to my affiliation with the girl. For the announcement of my takeover, I could hold a House-warming ball, making it a public occasion.” 

“It could work,” Antonin said, and Augustus nodded. Nagini hissed in approval. 

“I think so too,” Augustus said, “beside, Thickesse’s mind is so destroyed by now, it’s becoming difficult to keep him awake at Ministry meetings.” 

Voldemort chuckled. “His mind was never sound from the start.” 

The two wizards laughed too, because they all knew Thicknesse had been selected carefully amongst those they had thought would be the least likely to resist an Imperius Curse over time. 

“May I eat him?” Nagini asked, her forked tongue flicking the air. 

“Most assuredly, my dear,” Voldemort said, patting her skin with affection. “Though, he might be a tough old snack, not as tender as your last one.” 

“Sssss,” she hissed disapprovingly, “I’ve seen him, he’s not that old. I’m sure he’s tasty.” 

“Where’s Bella?” Antonin drawled. “I thought she was supposed to be at this meeting.” 

“It’s lunch, not a meeting,” Voldemort corrected absently, his hand sliding across Naginis broad snout, making his pet close her eyes in bliss. _Though the difference hardly mattered to him. He was always working, of course, but he liked to impress upon his followers that he granted them a part of his leisure time, too. He wasn’t sure if they believed him, though. It didn’t matter, it was all about appearances anyway._

Answering Antonin’s question, he said with a small smirk: “I sent Bella on an errand. My witch needs a new set of clothing.” 

Antonin choked on his coffee, and Augustus slapped his back with gusto, a tad harder than necessary. 

Wheezing, Antonin asked: “Is Bella alone, or did you send her out with the girl?” 

“With the girl,” Voldemort said cheerfully, adding: “I told Bella to behave.” 

His two followers shared an uneasy glance, before Augustus minutely shook his head at Antonin, clearly sending a signal of “ _let it go, you fool.”_

Then Augustus cleared his throat, after blotting his upper lip carefully with his napkin: “I would suggest, my Lord, that you did another interview, telling the world how devastated you were by the attack on your _beloved_.” 

Voldemort rolled his eyes. “You think so? Oh well, send that Witch Weekly woman here tomorrow, and I’ll tell her how happy I am that my witch and my child survived the nasty attack from the Order. And, I’ll spare no expense finding the criminals who’d attack a pregnant, defenseless witch.” 

Antonin snorted. “She’s hardly defenseless, is she? I remember her, from the Battle of the Ministry. You know, she Silenced me, making my curse run all awkward. Or else, I’d have killed her.” 

Suddenly, Voldemort’s good mood dropped like a plummeting stone, and he stared icily at Antonin. “Good for you that you missed,” he barked suddenly, making both Antonin and Augustus blink. Around his neck, Nagini’s body shook in silent laughter. 

  
  


Xxxx

To be standing inside Twilfitt and Tattings, ready to go shopping with Bellatrix Lestrange, wasn’t anything Hermione had ever imagined she would do. From the furious glances the other witch threw at her, her sneers and the way the woman’s hair _bristled_ , Hermione knew this was just as unbelievable for the fierce Death Eater by her side. 

Bellatrix Lestrange was a small woman, shorter than Hermione, and her clothes were scandalous by Hermione’s standards. The Death Eater looked like she had raided a Victorian sale, dressed up and then torn her clothes apart to show more flesh - much, much more than Victorian sensibilities would have ever allowed, her breasts almost spilling out of her corset. While Hermione realized Bellatrix would have fit in at any Muggle goth party, there was something much more disturbing about her, a sinister aura, that Muggles would be hard pressed to pull off. _A feeling of wrongness. Like the woman could turn on you in an instant, tearing you apart with her teeth. Which was, in all likelihood, the truth._

Just like last time, the owner had received instructions on what clothes Hermione would be allowed to buy, and by now, Hermione was convinced Voldemort had sent the instructions himself. _He was so particular about fabrics and colours, this wasn’t something he’d leave into her hands, or even a female Death Eater._

“You’ll look like a fat cow anyway,” the other witch mumbled, and Hermione turned to her, putting her hands on her hips. _She had dealt with catty girls all her life, thank you very much, she wasn’t about to let someone talk to her like that, sinister Death Eater or no._

“I’ll have you know,” she snarled, “I’m carrying your Lord’s heir. _He_ made me look like this, and if you’re displeased, you’ll have to voice that concern to him, not to me.” 

Rage flashed in Bellatrix eyes, and yes - her hair actually did crackle with magic. _Hermione knew, this was a rare thing for magic to manifest in the body. It happened at times to herself too. Supposedly, after what she had read, it was a sign of being powerful._

“Here it is,” the shop owner thrilled, black robes and dresses trailing after her, hanging magically suspended on their hangers. “You will look so wonderful, my Lady, with that wonderful pregnancy glow. His Lordship must be so proud!” 

Both Hermione and Bellatrix stiffened. _My Lady… was this something the shopkeeper said by her own volition, or had he instructed her to use this form of address?_ No matter that, a shiver ran down Hermione’s spine. _His Lady… Like she was his…_

“She’s a stuck-up little girl, that’s all she is!” Bellatrix snarled, her eyes much too intense. 

“Oh dear,” the shopkeeper said calmly, before she told Bellatrix, voice soothing like she was talking to a petulant child: “Why don’t you go over there to sit? There’s a nice corner for the ...uh, people accompanying their ...uh, friends, because fittings might be tedious, and uh… please, have some Firewhisky too.” 

For a brief moment, Hermione thought Bellatrix would attack the shopkeeper, but then she turned, marching over to the corner, settling in a comfortable chair and filling a large tumbler of Firewhisky to the brim. 

The shopkeeper winked at Hermione, and said: “Come with me. This might take some time, and we’ll make your new clothes adjustable with a simple Transfiguration spell, to account for your growing baby.” 

The fitting did take a lot of time, and when Hermione was finished, Bellatrix Lestrange seemed well and truly drunk. 

“I’ve an errand in Knockturn Alley before I take you back,” the witch slurred, swaying slightly on her feet. Behind them, the shopkeeper tutted, seeing as her bottle of Firewhisky was now empty. 

Following the Death Eater, seeing the wide berth people gave them in Diagon Alley, Hermione couldn’t help wonder if this was one of the stupidest things she’d ever done. _What would hinder the Lestrange woman from killing her in a dark alley?_ Then she squared her shoulders determinedly. _Nothing but herself - and the fact that Bellatrix was roaring drunk. She had faced four of the Order and learned Shielding by Voldemort himself, she could take on a drunk Bellatrix Lestrange if needed._

Surprisingly, it seemed that Bellatrix had a legitimate errand, entering a seedy Apotechary in Knockturn Alley. The houses all leaned in on the street, dimming the light, and everything looked old, grimy and… unsavoury. 

“I’m here for ingredients,” Bellatrix yelled as they entered. The apotechary was well-stocked, with the normal ingredients like moonseeds, Flobberworm mucus, roots, berries and lacewing flies in the front, but behind the counter, a tall shelf reaching the ceiling held jars and bottles with things Hermione had only read about, but never seen. 

Glassy unicorn eyes floated in a jar, several bottles with different kinds of blood stood neatly labelled, including a large vat with the label “Muggle blood from certified virgins: Four Galleons by the pint,” as well as pickled Bowtruckles and Mermaid hearts. On a shelf by itself, there was a large smoking bottle with a viscous purple liquid inside, fumes shifting and twisting inside the glass. The label read: “ _Dragon seed, **freshly** harvested_.” 

“Don’t they all,” a dry, hoarse voice said, and the owner came into view. He was very tall, thin, and his head was oddly blurry, like he had a badly done Glamour covering his features. 

The smell inside the shop was sharp and acrid, and Hermione felt nausea rising. The pregnancy made her more sensitive to smells, and this … was awful, the stench prickling in her nose. 

“I’m making a Lust Potion,” Bellatrix announced, and the owner shrugged. 

“For a witch or a wizard?” 

“A wizard.” 

“Power level?” 

“Immense.” 

Hermione furrowed her brow, because that could only mean… Fury started to simmer, because surely, _he wouldn’t, or would he_? 

The owner had obviously come to the same conclusion, and he sniggered. “I would advise against that, Madam Lestrange. He will not be happy by being doused. A brief moment of happiness might result in your ... untimely … demise.”

“Ha!” the witch snorted, swaying drunkenly at her feet. “He let me go down on him, almost, only weeks ago.” 

“He did what?” Hermione almost didn’t recognize her own voice. It was so chilling, so frosty, though on the inside, flames were stoking, consuming her, making rage flicker red in her vision. _Voldemort had let this woman…?_

Bellatrix turned to her, looking smug. “He let me go down on him. I had his cock in my mouth - again.” 

Boring her eyes in the witch, feeling her own hair start to crackle, sparks shooting, Hermione said, her voice low and angry: “You said almost. What do you mean?” 

“He wanted me, and I was blowing him - but then he pushed me away, he didn’t let me finish him,” the other witch muttered, looking suddenly strangely frightened, staring at Hermione with her big eyes wide open. With a start, Hermione realized she had her wand out, pointing at Bellatrix. 

“The two of you, take this outside my shop!” the owner barked. “I’m invoking my premises warding, if you don’t step outside now! Go outside, or you’ll be rudely thrown out on your sorry arses!” 

His voice was frightened, like he thought he was about to have two powerful witches squaring off in his Apotechary, and slowly Bellatrix nodded. 

Hermione did too, taking a step backwards, keeping her eyes on Bellatrix at all times. Her wand felt warm in her hands, like it was longing to release her magic. 

Feeling the door behind her, she flicked her magic at it, opening it, before backing out in the dark alley. Bellatrix slowly followed her outside, still looking uneasy. 

In the dim light on the outside, blue flashes of lights were continuously dancing on the edge of Hermione’s vision. After a few seconds, she realized the lights came from herself - her hair was truly crackling with blue lightning. Fury was flowing through her, filling her up, by the thought of this woman touching _her_ wizard. 

In a voice still so very unlike her own, with a low, deadly whisper, she told Bellatrix: “You stay away from him.” 

Bellatrix sputtered, seemingly finding her courage: “You don’t get to decide that. He does what he wants!” 

Hermione felt like she was watching herself from afar, watching some powerful, enraged witch, full of emotions she couldn’t begin to decipher, a witch who didn’t have any qualms by threatening a mighty Death Eater: “You stay away from him, or else I’ll go after you.” 

“Huh,” Bellatrix spat, lifting her chin haughtily, “I’m not taking orders from a Mudblood!” 

In the distant part of her that was so full of fury, brimming with acidic hatred and rage, a thought churned: “He did tell you you could curse his followers.” A hollow roar rose in her mind, clamouring for release, and she smiled grimly. 

Bellatrix didn’t even manage to blink before it hit her, the Curse flowing so smoothly, so rapidly out of Hermione’s wand, like a jet of red-hot lava hitting Bellatrix right in the chest: “ _Crucio.”_

Xxxx

Hermione had spent her morning having uncomfortable Floo meetings with her builders. Kneeling on the stone floor, even with a Cushioning charm, made her legs cramp, but it seemed like the work was progressing just fine. 

“The house is more solid than it seems,” the Master carpenter had told her in his report, his French translated into the Queen’s English by the “ _Transferendum_ ” spell. “The drying spells are coming along nicely, we’re almost done replacing any rot we’ve found, and the repairs on the floors are almost finished. We’ll clear out by the beginning of next week, before schedule.” 

Pleased with her workers, she rose, stretching her cold and stiff muscles, hearing her joints crack. Wincing, one hand to her aching back, Hermione decided to go for a walk through the castle to work through her stiffness. Rubbing her stomach, she also noted that her clothes had become much too tight around her waist. _Good thing her new clothes would be arriving soon, then._ The baby rewarded her rubbing with a strong kick, making her smile. 

_After the incident in Knockturn Alley, she had Apparated back to the school by herself, leaving Bellatrix in a snivelling heap in the street. To her surprise, a number of people had been watching her, staring out from the doors and windows of the shops, and quite a few had gathered in the street itself, watching her as she held the Unforgivable for as long as she could._

_When she finally had turned away, murmurs rose, and several knuckled their heads, bowing, whispering “My Lady”. Hermione had just left, feeling strangely empty, like she had just drained her magic significantly. The true horror was, she couldn’t find it in her to regret it. Bellatrix had deserved what she got, and … Hermione would do it again. And again, if needed. Though, she didn’t want to examine the grounds for her strong feelings, that utter, complete, all-consuming rage she had felt. It was best to let ...that… go._

As she entered the corridor, she saw Perenella to the right, limping towards the stairs. 

“Did you hurt your leg?” she called after her, feeling a niggling of worry. 

Perenella stopped, and then she turned slowly around, saying much too quietly: “No.” 

Hermione gasped, clapping one hand to her mouth. _Perenella’s pretty face was bruised, her lip bleeding, and half of her face was red, like someone had hit her. Hard._

“Oh, Merlin,” she whispered, “what happened?” 

“He happened,” the witch said with an eerie calmness, turning around to limp down the stairs, shoulders hunched in on herself. 

Staring in shock, Hermione couldn’t _believe_ Snape had done anything like that, but obviously, he had. 

“Please, let me help you? I’m not that good with Healing, but I can do something, and I have a few phials of Pain-killing potion in my rooms…”

“No, thank you,” Perenella, giving her a half-smile, before wincing. Shaking her head, she said muttered. “No, I can manage. Thanks for offering, though. Now I need to be alone.” 

Staring after her retreating form, Hermione debated with herself. _Should she go to see the Headmaster, giving him a piece of her mind?_

Making a quick decision, she squared her shoulders, marching towards the gargoyle guarding the Head’s chambers, barking: “ _Lily Martagon!_ ” 

In the Headmaster’s office, everything looked to be in chaos. Furniture was upheaved, a vase of lilies lay broken on the floor, books lay scattered about the floor, and there was a muddled brown puddle with broken potion phials underneath a shelf. 

The Headmaster himself was sitting on the floor, head in his hands, a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky beside him. 

Upon hearing her arrival, he lifted his head. To her knowledge, Snape had never looked this awful before. Considering the red state of his eyes, he could have been crying, and his face was scratched, like someone with long nails had attacked him. His shirt was dishevelled, torn, barely tucked into his black trousers. 

“What did you do?” Hermione said sternly, pointing at him. “What did you do to her?” 

His face almost crumpled, but his voice was the usual, mellifluous baritone: “We had a fight. I beat her up. But she gave as good as she got, believe me.” 

“Why!” she snarled, “why would you hit a woman? Why would you beat up your wife?” 

“She cheated on me,” he said heavily, “and she has made sure everyone will learn that I’m a cuckold. That the Headmaster of Hogwarts cannot keep his young wife satisfied.” 

“That’s not the point, is there?” she said angrily. “The point is, no matter what happens, one shouldn’t abuse one’s strength in any way!” 

Snape laughed hollowly. “She did. She hurt me where I am at the weakest, didn’t she? She told me, she’d lay down for any man who would have her, as long as it wasn’t me. She said, I was never to touch her again.” 

“She did?” Hermione felt her eyebrows rise. _This was petty and cruel, but… from the state of her, those bruises Hermione had seen, it was nothing more than Snape deserved to hear._

Snape took a long swig out of his bottle, shaking his head. “She told me, she’s blown a couple of wizards she met at the pub before, just for laughs, apparently, but this was the first time she shagged someone there. The thing is, she only told me because she was caught. If that hadn’t happened, she would have continued. Doing it again.” 

Hermione blinked, as she reevaluated her impression of Perenella. _Giving blow-jobs to wizards at the pub…? Well, she knew Perenella had been drinking a lot, lately, but this was really low. And the cheating wasn’t a one-time thing, it seemed._ “Still, you shouldn’t hit your wife,” she maintained. 

Snape snorted. “Don’t you think I know it. For the record, she tried to hex me first. ” 

Lifting the bottle to his mouth, he drank deeply, closing his eyes. 

Looking around in the room, Hermione could easily imagine that there had been a fight, or even a duel. There were scorch marks on the desk, and a chair was reduced to charred splinters, clear evidence of a fight with magical means in both cases. 

Snape wiped his mouth on his sleeve, before he muttered: ““The worst thing is, I’ve become my father.” 

“What?” Hermione remembered suddenly that Harry had told her something about seeing a cowering child and a big, yelling man in Snape’s mind, during that disastrous Occlumency lesson in their fifth year. “What about your father?” 

“I fucking became Tobias Snape!” Snape bellowed, making her jump. 

Muttering, he continued: “I got married to someone I didn’t want, just like him, and now I beat her up, just like he used to do. I even drink more, just like him. Who knows, maybe I will turn into someone who beats their child too.” 

Carefully, she said, like she didn’t want to spook an animal: “You cannot be your father. That’s not how it works. You are yourself, and it’s your choices that matter. You don’t have to be like this.” 

He harrumphed. “I swore, I’d never do anything like this, and here we are. I swore, I’d stay true to Lily, and here we are. I’m useless. I should be put down like a rabid dog. Just like I put him down.” 

“Put him down?” she asked, feeling a growing horror. 

Mutely, he nodded, before drinking deeply again. 

Sighing, he said: “He killed my mother. He was a cruel, nasty bastard. One day, the beatings had gone too far, and she died. I was in school when it happened, and I killed him in turn during the summer after my seventh year.” 

“Oh Merlin,” she whispered, feeling her hands shaking. _This was … so fucked up. So much history, much more than a one-time, violent fight between a witch and a wizard. And… there was the matter of Lily, too._

“What about Lily, who is that?” she asked, though she knew the answer. 

“Lily Evans,” he muttered. “My true love, light of my life. The one I love. The one I should have stayed true to, no matter what. I should never have married.”

“Harry’s Mum?” she had to ask, just to confirm it. 

Snape nodded, before raising his arm, silently Summoning one of the crushed lilies to him, brushing it against his nose, like he was seeking comfort. 

“Yes,” he confirmed brokenly. “My Lily, though she didn’t want me. My lovely Lily, and Perenella, at the Equinox … well, it was easy to forget myself, green eyes and red hair, though Perenella is a bitch in every sense of the word, and Lily was a good person. And I tried to get out of this mess, but I cannot not do the right thing. I have to take care of my child.” 

He drank deeply again, and Hermione sat down on her haunches in front of him. Peering at him, she now felt absolutely certain that Snape wasn’t truly on Voldemort’s side. Not when he loved Harry’s Mum like that. Though, like before, she knew she couldn’t make him say it out loud, because as a powerful Legilimens, Voldemort would pluck it from her brain. 

“I don’t want to be like that, not like him, my father,” he mumbled, face white and desperate, anguished. 

“You don’t have to be, it’s your choice,” she repeated herself, much more calmly than she felt. Inside, she was muttering to herself angrily: _Striking a woman was never ok, would never be. He’s still a bastard. Snape had been out of line._ “You can choose differently in another situation.” 

“Yes, but I _did_ want to hurt her, see? That’s the problem. She has, effectively, ruined my life, whatever little there was left of it. I am … not a good man.” 

She nodded, still looking at the broken man in front of her. 

_It was true, Snape wasn’t a good man, but she had things to consider. First, he was a Death Eater, with almost all that entailed, and second, no good men beat their wife, no matter how ugly the fight. She could admit, Perenella had certainly done bad things to Snape, but there was no need for him to act like this. Third, he seemed to know he had handled the situation badly, regretting what had just happened. Fourth, he seemed to carry a love for a woman long dead, and fifth, he may not be entirely on the Order’s side, but he wasn’t truly on Voldemort’s side either. Maybe he just was on Harry’s side - like her._

_Sixth, the most important thing now, was that he was hurting, and he was her friend. She wasn’t ready to forgive him for doing something as atrocious as beating up his wife, but she would have to work through that later. Now, Severus Snape needed a friend, and she suspected he didn’t have anyone else but her. The world seemed to be full of nothing but wrong choices, but she knew, taking care of her friends was the right way. Not like what **her** friends had done to her. _

Sighing, she said: “Come here,” opening her arms, leaning forward to hug the Headmaster. 

He stiffened at first, but then he put his head down on her shoulder, arms coming around her to hold her hard, like she was a lifeline and he was lost at sea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who wanted Perenella and Snape to work out, uh, well... sorry?


	21. Underachieving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doubtfully, she said: “I don’t know if I can convey all that with feeling.” 
> 
> He snorted. “As long as they believe it. I don’t require you to believe it. Just act.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon, I'll be setting a chapter count, because the full draft of the story is almost done! There's still a lot of editing to be done, but we're getting there... Thank you for your patience. :-)

Later that night, she huddled beneath a blanket in her chambers. It was warm outside, but she felt ice-cold, having coerced the flames to a roaring furnace in her fireplace. Clutching a mug of piping hot black tea, she couldn’t help comparing what had happened between Snape and Perenella, and herself and Voldemort. 

She had tried to kill her lover, and in return, Voldemort had … spanked her. _She knew very well, Voldemort could have done so much worse, if he had wanted to. But he hadn’t. His retaliation had been much … softer … than his reputation warranted. Still, he hadn’t bothered to ask for her consent, he had just acted._

Sighing, she remembered how desperately afraid she had been in the beginning of this strange relationship, wondering if it was something wrong with her for enjoying sex with Voldemort. Somehow, along the way, it had become natural, almost normal, and now she had to contend with being spanked by him too. _To her surprise, it hadn’t been such a terrible ordeal, far from it._ Even though he had meant to chastise her, the experience also had a playful quality, being just as much for his enjoyment - and hers - than as an actual punishment. 

_While Perenella and Snape …. that had been bloody awful._ It was obvious the two of them had meant to hurt each other for real: Perenella cheating on him, hexing him, telling him awful things, him using his superior strength to beat his pregnant wife. 

There was a world of difference between what she had experienced, and what Perenella and Snape had gone through. In a way, she felt sure Voldemort hadn’t wanted to do her real harm, though the same couldn’t be applied to herself for trying to kill him. _Though, maybe she had just got off easy because of the pregnancy. He wasn’t a good man, not by far, so…_

Her eyes narrowed, and suddenly, she felt much too hot underneath the blanket.

_Voldemort, however, wouldn’t feel so lucky the next time he saw her. Still, she hadn’t decided what she would do in return for him letting that rabid maniac, Bellatrix Lestrange, touch him…_

A flicker of rage shot through her, opening that festering sore her imagination had become. Ever since she had learned what Bellatrix Lestrange had been allowed to do, her mind was under siege by a barrage of filthy images involving him and that awful Death Eater. _Her whole body felt like a simmering cauldron full of acidic poison, ready to spew forth bursts of wild fury, to attack, to maim, to …_ Breathing harshly through her nose, she tried to calm herself down. 

Then the fireplace turned green, swirling flames appearing, and out stepped the Dark Lord. 

Xxxx

“You did well with Bella,” he said, but the little witch just arched her eyebrow haughtily, staring up at him from her reading chair. 

_It was true, he had felt suitably impressed, because Bella had returned, looking like a total mess, twitching and shaking after the Cruciatus she had been subjected to. To take down an experienced Death Eater like Bella was no mean feat indeed. In fact, he was proud. To use an Unforgivable in such a way proved that his little witch was well on her way to darkness._

“I know,” she almost purred, though there was something dangerous lurking in her eyes. “She needed to be taken down a few notches.” 

“Yes, well,” he said, scratching his neck. She was scrutinizing him, and he was growing… _uneasy_ , even feeling uncomfortable, like there was something terribly wrong going on. 

“And you!” she suddenly barked, eyes flashing. “How dare you let that woman touch you!” 

Voldemort blinked. _How did she know? Of course, Bella would have told her…._

Reaching out to her mind, he suddenly understood why his witch had used an Unforgivable. _She had been angry, feeling as if Bella had been trespassing on her rights. To him. Simply put, the little witch had retaliated brutally for what she perceived as an infraction._

This was… unprecedented. _No one made demands of him. Did she think she could rule him? If so…_ Still, something bloomed inside him, a curious, tickling feeling, born by the knowledge that she would _torture_ another witch for touching him. 

She had risen from her chair, hands on her hips, eyes flinty, and her hair sparked, blue lights flickering around her. Her magic was swirling around him, building up, gathering momentum, the air suddenly charged, like an explosion was imminent.

His train of thoughts was cut off by her impending rant: “You **bastard** , cavorting with other witches, when you dared to curse me with a life-long Fidelity Curse! I will tell you, I do not accept that! If you think I will stand for you _cheating_ on me, you’re wrong! How many witches have you had since Equinox? I should have known you weren’t only a monster, but a filthy adulterer too!” 

Voldemort gaped. Instead of the anger he rightly should have felt, for her presumptions of laying _claim_ to _him_ , there was only a small flash of indignation, and he snapped at her: “I haven’t had anyone! It was only the incident with Bella, and that … that was clearly wrong, so I stopped it! I didn’t even go through with it!” 

Now, it was her mouth that hung open. Slowly, she stuttered: “You hh-h-haven’t? Only me?” 

Voldemort sighed, looking heavenward in exasperation, though he didn’t know if it was directed at her, himself or both, before saying: “Only you. Mind, this is not my usual mode. I normally don’t use just one witch to satisfy… ” 

“I see,” she said frostily, and before he knew it, her eyes flashed maliciously, and she snarled, having him at wand point: “ _Fidelitas aeter…”_

But he stopped her with a shout, breaking off the Fidelity Curse she was about to launch, his voice croaking out a panicked “ _Petrificus Totalis!”_ His magic shot out of him, overpowering her, petrifying her before she could finish the spell. 

Instantly, she went rigid, before she slowly toppled over, limbs frozen by the spell. Voldemort surged forward, catching her before she fell, holding her stiff, immobile body in his arms. Only her eyes glared at him, and he wondered: _Had her eyes ever seemed this dark? So … passionate and angry at the same time. So beautiful._

He was breathing hard, staring down at her for a long moment. _Oddly enough, he wasn’t as angry with_ **_her_ ** _as he rightfully should have been, because this new attempt at cursing him was a sign of … what, exactly? That she wanted_ **_him_ ** _for herself? The fact that she felt that way was … good, satisfying, even comforting, in a way._

Though, he was not supposed to care about this at all. A voice in his head shouted insistently: _This is wrong, you fool!_ He was Lord Voldemort, for crying out loud, and he shouldn’t be flattered by a young witch’s interest. _Not at all!_

Feeling his anger grow, directed at something - **anything** \- he glared down at her, meeting that baleful stare head on. _He shouldn’t be this weak, just because she was pretty, powerful, intelligent and his! It wasn’t right, he had let himself be lured into something that could weaken him, destroy his work, destroy him, even…_

Danger was brewing, simmering inside him, making him realize his infamous, uncontrollable temper was going to blow - spectacularly so. He could feel it, like he was a volcano about to blow: lava rising rapidly in the vents, the eruption imminent from that vast reservoir of anger and power in his core. 

_This couldn’t happen near her. He had to get away, to direct the explosion away from her, he had to keep her safe. Her, and his heir._

Hurriedly, he Levitated her to her bed, before leaping up on her window sill. Turning around, he cast the “ _Revivo_ ” over his shoulder, not daring to even look at her. _She, who had made his invincible shell crack and almost fail. She, who had caused this rage to ignite by the way which she affected him._

Taking off, tearing through the air, whipping the winds to speed his flight, to get away from Hogwarts, away from her, fury building inside at the indignity - _he had felt something, a flicker of something, he shouldn’t, this was not right -_ he alighted in a small Muggle village in the Lake District.

The cobbled main street consisted of well-tended stone houses and a large half-timbered pub. People were strolling leisurely, catching the last rays from the evening sun, a few shops were still open, and a carpenter was still working on a house, the sound of the hammer ringing in the village. Three old women were leaning over a stone fence, admiring the burgeoning rose bushes in the garden of another woman, and the sound of laughter drifted out from the open windows of the pub. 

Everything was so very peaceful, and Voldemort breathed in the rich scent of a warm summer evening: Green grass, blossoming flowers, the dusty smell of warm stones, as well as the delicious smell of a chicken roast wafting from a nearby window. 

For a moment, the thought briefly crossed his mind that he should Disillusion himself, because even rumours of a rampage in a Muggle village would surely tear down his carefully constructed image. 

But then he smiled grimly. _It wouldn’t be necessary, because there would be no one alive to tell._

Xxxx

“Did you see the Muggle news about the village that disappeared?” 

Snape’s voice was as deep as ever, and his face just as blank. 

Hermione nodded with disinterest, being more preoccupied with her inner turmoil. Her stomach churned, and her heart hammered, like it had done since _that_ incident. _Had she been mad, trying to curse Lord Voldemort - again? Oddly enough, he hadn’t done anything but hinder her, and then he had ran away. There was no other way to put it. Voldemort had run from her. But really: Could she be … jealous? Was that why she had reacted so irrationally? Surely not, it was her anger, a momentary flash…_

“How did he get so angry?” From his expression, Snape could have been commenting on the weather. 

Blinking, her inner musings interrupted, she replied: “He? I’m not sure what you mean… It was a freak earthquake, wasn’t it? Nothing to do with … him.” 

Snape shrugged, gazing steadily at her. “I think you know what I mean.” 

Her voice only a breath, she whispered: “Oh Merlin, was it _him?_ ” 

_The Muggle news had been spectacular enough to make the Wizarding news too. After all, it wasn’t an everyday occurrence for a village to simply disappear, with none alive. All that was left, was a great big hole, like the area had collapsed into the ground._

“I would say so. I can’t see anyone else destroying on quite that scale. _Yet,”_ Snape said pointedly, looking at her. 

Hermione almost snorted. _Snape had been very displeased to learn she had cursed Bellatrix Lestrange with an Unforgivable, telling her in no uncertain terms that she could have chosen far milder curses, and yet received the same effect with inventive casting._

“As Headmaster, I know when someone goes through the wards,” he added. “I know for a fact that he came, stayed for only minutes and left, and that this incident must have happened a very short while afterwards.” 

“He was angry, but he didn’t do anything to me,” Hermione said slowly. “It was almost like he ran away.” 

Snape’s black eyes widened, and he sucked in a breath. Reverently, he said: “He was angry at you, and yet he didn’t throw a tantrum with you present? Miss Granger, this is important. He must be much more entangled with you than he would ever want to admit to anyone, not even himself.” 

Hermione grunted, sipping her tea. _She didn’t believe that, and besides, she was much more concerned about her own disturbing possessiveness towards him._

Xxxx

“I have the Weasleys,” he said without any preamble, sauntering cockily towards her. She was sitting by the shore of the lake, enjoying the warmth of early August, watching the Giant Squid flop its tentacles lazily above the water, reading up on a very interesting old scroll with a detailed account of the legends from the time of Merlin. 

As his message sunk in, Hermione felt like she was drenched in ice-cold water, even though the sun was beating down on her. 

_Two weeks had gone by without any visits from Voldemort, and the work on Riddle House had proceeded splendidly. Snape and Perenella, however, was quite another story. Snape seemed to be angry, even ashamed of himself, though he pretended to be indifferent. He hadn’t batted an eyelid when the Prophet snidely suggested that the Snape marriage perhaps wasn’t a success, though there were no details. Hermione hadn’t even seen Perenella, and most of her owls went unanswered. As for Voldemort… she’d deny to her dying day that she had been waiting for him to show up._

Now, Voldemort was back after two weeks of absence, pretending that nothing had happened between them at all: No attempted murder, no Curses, no adultery, no horrifying, destructive results of his rage. _Well, two could play that game,_ she thought, sniffing disdainfully. 

Her stomach was getting bigger as she was approaching her fifth month of pregnancy, and getting up from the ground was starting to be … not exactly _difficult_ , but it was an effort. She struggled to lift herself off the ground, but tried to maintain an indifferent expression. It was hard, though, with the huffing and puffing to get to her feet. 

Voldemort glanced at her, face blank, before she suddenly found herself Levitated and upright. 

“Uh, thank you,” she said a little breathlessly. 

“I’ve scoured their minds,” he said callously, “and later today, we’re apprehending Kingsley Shacklebolt and Minerva McGonagall.” 

“You didn’t torture them, did you?” she asked anxiously, but the small half-smile on Voldemort’s thin lips told her everything. 

“How do you choose, my dear?” he asked, voice more sibilant than usual. 

Hermione swallowed. _This was it. To condemn McGonagall, Ron’s parents and Kingsley Shacklebolt to death, because she didn’t want to take the Dark Mark … it seemed so selfish. She should do everything within her power to save them, giving Harry and Ron a fighting chance with the Order by their side. No matter what she had to sacrifice. No matter how she bound herself to a man who was evil incarnate, who might or might not be true to her. Most likely, he wasn’t, whatever Snape said._

Raising her head, staring straight into those red, cruel eyes, she made her promise: “I will take your Mark, but I will not swear my allegiance.” 

He looked at her, amused, before saying slowly: “Little witch, my Mark _is_ allegiance. But it’s your call, their deaths, or my Mark. Choose wisely, girl.” 

Shoulders slumping, she knew she had lost. _Really, because there wasn’t a choice, like he had known all along._ Defeated, she whispered: “I’ll take your Mark, and I ask you in return for letting them go safely, without any more torture.” 

Voldemort nodded, his eyes oddly triumphant, and she knew, that look didn’t bode well. 

“And here’s what you’ll do,” he stated imperiously. “You’ll tell the public that you begged me to spare them, even though they tried to kill you. I’ll be so moved by your compassion, I’ll agree to let them go, sentencing them to house arrest for five years. You’ll be happy, gushing and tearful, and so overwhelmed by my mercy, convincing the public of my good intentions.” 

Doubtfully, she said: “I don’t know if I can convey all that with feeling.” 

He snorted. “As long as they believe it. I don’t require _you_ to believe it. Just act.” 

Xxxx

The Malfoy dungeon was cold and damp as usual, and the flickering torches along the wall could barely light up the deep darkness. 

Moving silently towards the cell, Voldemort couldn’t help feel elated. _The Order was in his hands, at his mercy. Though he had promised not to kill them now, that wasn’t to say he wouldn’t kill them later. For now, he had other plans._ Nagini slithered behind him, curious as ever, and probably wanting a snack. 

_He had enjoyed seeing his witch again. It was almost funny, because now, not seeing her for two weeks felt like a long, long time. Destroying that village in the Lake District had felt so good, and the release of his anger had made him more level-headed and rational. Without the fury clouding his mind, it all seemed so obvious. He didn’t care for her, like he had feared, this was all due to her carrying his heir. He needed to protect his line, to protect the child, and that was all there was to it. Nothing more, nothing at all._

Stopping in front of the iron bars, the magical cage within shimmered faintly, making sure that the prisoners wouldn’t be able to affect anything with their magic, effectively dampening their powers. _How nice then, that this was strictly one way. The cage allowed for anyone on the outside to cast spells on the ones inside. Like magical osmosis_. 

To be frank, Voldemort knew this idea had come about due to his Muggle schooling at the orphanage. _He had created this spell during his last summer at Wool’s, after leafing through his old natural science textbook. Of course, he had never told anyone how he got the idea, though his followers had been suitably impressed by his genius._

Standing in front of the cell, it took at least ten seconds before anyone had noticed him. 

The Weasleys’ reaction were very satisfying, as they paled, cowering in a corner, holding on to each other, obviously reliving their torture at his hands, while Shacklebolt and McGonagall bristled, though they still looked fearful. 

Breathing in deeply, he could smell their fear and anger: _A sharp tang of sour sweat with the bitter hint of panic, and the metallic scent of iron from their fury. Ah yes, they knew they were well and truly caught._

“Hold on, Molly, we’ll survive this,” Arthur Weasley whispered to his wife, who was shaking in fright. 

She patted her husband’s arm, saying tremulously: “I know, Arthur, I know.” 

_Torturing them had been fun._ At first, he had started with a few Mind Curses, inserting nightmarish visions in their brains. Taking them through the pain and fear their daughter, Ginevra, had felt as she was slowly consumed by his diary, had been exquisite, all the more so because it was true. The parents had felt so helpless, so frustrated and scared, it had almost made him aroused. Then, he had moved on to more traditional nightmares, capture, sexual assaults, their house overrun by Inferis, friends dying, their children killed, and Soul-sucking Dementors finishing them off. 

After the Mind Curses, he had moved on to the Cruciatus. As always, he had aimed to perfect his casting, making the curse the exact shade of red which would make the pain burn that much hotter, even though he split his casting, cursing both at the same time. In the end, he had used the Transmogrifian Torture, almost sighing with disappointment when he had to let up. _The point was_ **_not_ ** _to kill, at least not yet. The fact that their intestines were now … re-arranged … wasn’t his problem. They would live._

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said politely, and Nagini hissed with laughter. 

McGonagall drew herself up, her face a pinched frown, but she replied primly: “Good evening.” 

Shacklebolt snorted incredulously. “Minerva, I swear, this is not a tea party.” 

Haughtily, the old witch said: “I will not be the first to eschew manners in present company.” 

Voldemort almost grinned at the insult. _McGonagall was the very epitome of stiff upper lip and Pure-blood pride, though she, filthy Muggle-lover that she was, would never admit to that._

“You will be free to go,” he said, adding “almost,” as an afterthought. 

Incredulous relief spread on Shacklebolt’s and the Weasleys’ faces, though McGonagall looked more suspicious than ever. 

“Why would you release us?” she barked. 

Voldemort spread his hands, shrugging. “My witch asked for it,” he said blandly, knowing that this would rile them up further. 

“Your witch!” Molly Weasley spat. “Don’t come here with your old-fashioned, misogynist drivel. Hermione is her own witch, thank you very much!” Her fears forgotten, the Weasley witch had puffed herself up, looking angry and red-faced. 

“Molly…” Arthur Weasley’s voice was pained. “Not now, please don’t antagonize him. I know how you feel very strongly about this, but… please, think. We’re _prisoners._ ” 

Blinking, Molly Weasley stopped herself. 

“ _My_ witch,” Voldemort repeated pointedly. “You should know, she wasn’t on my side fully, before you made your ill-advised attack. Now she is, and she’ll be taking my Mark in return for your freedom. You have managed to lose your greatest asset to me. She’ll wear my Mark, because of your incompetence.” 

Shacklebolt harrumphed. “Our greatest asset, that would be Harry, don't you think?” 

Voldemort shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Potter is by all means important, but he’s nothing without her. She was the brains of that little trio, and has been instrumental in every success Potter has had. Isn’t that right, Professor McGonagall?” 

The old witch looked uncomfortable, but he knew her ethics wouldn’t allow her to lie. “Yes,” she said at last. “Miss Granger has been of the utmost importance for Mr. Potter.” 

“I would like the tall dark-skinned one,” Nagini interrupted, her head rearing as she peered at the prisoners with interest. Her tongue flickered, and she added: “He looks delicious. Not tough like the old one, and the others are … not right… on the inside.” She gave Voldemort a reproachful look, clearly chiding him for the earlier spat of torture and the dislocation of the Weasley’s inner organs. 

“Ah, my dear,” he replied, petting her head.”You cannot have him right away, because I promised the little witch I’d let them go. You have my word, you can have him later.”  
  
The exchange in Parsel-tongue seemed to make the prisoners even more unsettled, and Arthur Weasley backed slowly against the far wall, staring intently at Nagini. 

“Hmm,” Nagini sighed, before lowering her body to the floor. Suddenly, she lunged, her long body unfurling with alarming rapidity across the narrow stone corridor, her teeth piercing a small, squeaking rat hiding by the wall. 

Arthur Weasley shrieked in terror, and Voldemort smiled. Nagini returned to his side, hissing softly: “Snack…” before she opened her jaws wide, swallowing the rat slowly. 

Weasley was white-faced, sweating profusely, his wife holding on to him, cooing softly: “She’s on the other side of the bars, Arthur, calm down.” 

“Still remembering my pet, do you Weasley?” Voldemort said cheerfully. 

Arthur Weasley nodded, still shaken, clutching his arm, where Nagini had bitten him only a few years ago in the Department of Mysteries.

Nagini rustled in satisfaction at his feet, and he knew she would have been preening if she hadn’t been so busy devouring the rat.

“So,” Voldemort said, returning to the business at hand, “I will allow you to go in return for the Marking of _Hermione_.” He put special emphasis on her name, knowing it would unsettle them further. “You will be detained in your houses for the next five years, and if I hear so much as a rumour of insurrection pertaining to any and all of you, you and your extended families will be killed.” 

The four of them shared a long look, before McGonagall said: “I suppose there is no alternative.” 

“Quite right,” Voldemort nodded. “Your release will be a public affair, covered by all news organizations. Remember to thank me properly for my mercy.” 

McGonagall’s mouth twisted into a grimace, giving a jerky nod. 

“That will be all,” Voldemort said, “the ceremony will be set in two days.” 

Turning to walk away, Nagini hissed at him: “Master, may I stay here? I enjoy watching the frightened one.” 

“By all means, my dear, enjoy yourself, “ he replied.

_This was perfect. They would break their promise to stay out of trouble within days of their release, and he could strike. He would have both a Marked Granger and a dead Order. It was glorious._

Xxxx

“Are you ready?” 

Hermione sighed. “Yes,” she said reluctantly, “I suppose I am, though I don’t feel like it.” 

Voldemort just hummed. They were standing outside, on top of the Astronomy Tower on a warm starry night, the full moon shining above them, contrasting the deep shadows from the crenelated battlements with the silvery light playing on the platform. In the distance, a herd of Thestrals were on the hunt, swooping around over the treetops in the Forbidden Forest, a terrified gaggle of geese frantically flapping their wings to get away. 

“Kneel,” he said, looking down at her intently, those red eyes burning like coals in the darkness. 

Gingerly, she lowered herself to her knees, her stomach protruding as she sat, now. The flagstones were cold against her silk robe, making her shiver. Voldemort had demanded she would be naked underneath her robe, and she felt a frisson of fear. _What would this Marking entail?_

“Bare your left arm,” he commanded. 

She nodded, rolling up her sleeve. Voldemort grasped her left hand with his, turning her wrist over, before pointing his wand at her pale skin. She noted it was his old one, not the Elder Wand. 

Looking up at him, her eyes met his gaze for a breathless moment. Suddenly, Voldemort swallowed, and his voice when he cast the spell was hoarse: “ _Mihi pythonissam, Morsmordre domina_!” 

His wand lit up, a golden-greenish light shooting out, curling around her arm, tickling her skin, making her tingle. She gasped, as a pleasant warmth spread over her arm, concentrating on the thin skin on her forearm, coalescing into a bright searing light, zinging her, like a passing burn, before the blaze suddenly went out. 

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath the entire time, her lungs heaving for breath, and she could hear, Voldemort did the same thing, inhaling sharply. 

In wonder, she stared at the writhing snake coming out of the skull on her arm, just like any other Dark Mark she had seen, but… the colours were all wrong. 

“It’s green and gold, not black,” she whispered. 

From above, Voldemort whispered a faint “yes.” Looking slowly up, her eyes loath to leave the glittering green skull and the golden snake, she met his eyes again. He stared her down, challenging her to ask, and suddenly, she knew. _He didn’t know why either. Lord Voldemort had somehow, inexplicably, messed up his own spell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry about Molly and Arthur, I really am. But Voldemort wouldn’t be Voldemort if he didn’t go to such extremes … 
> 
> So, in the end, she did take the Mark, though you all were on Team No Dark Mark. But what does the Mark do? ;-)
> 
> Stay safe!


	22. Underpublicized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, but… this will be awful, and they will believe… everything,” she finished lamely. 
> 
> “As it is, ‘everything’ is true,” he snapped. “This is not up for discussion, you will play your part.” 
> 
> He glared at her, and though her bottom lip quivered adorably, she eventually nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you asked for smut. Well, here it is! ;-) 
> 
> And, you'll find out a little more about the Mark.
> 
> Finally, there's a chapter count! (It might change, if I suddenly find out I need to write new scenes during the editing, but it looks like we're heading for 27.)

“Rise,” he said, at the kneeling witch at his feet. His Mark was on her arm, but it was all wrong. The sudden impulse manifesting in his casting, had done something wildly different to the spell, and he wasn’t at all sure of the properties of this new variation. Usually, he prided himself on his ability to create and develop spells, but normally, he tested them first. _Rigorously._ _Not like this._

However, he suspected that he had given her some claim to him too, by naming her his Lady - the _domina_ of his Marked followers. _For Merlin’s sake, he had as good as married the girl with this spell. It was a good thing she didn’t know it, though._

Slowly, awkwardly, she started to rise, and he reached down, taking her hand, dragging her up. 

The girl stared at him, those brown eyes much too searching, telling him, she knew something was up. 

_He wouldn’t tell her, no, he’d keep it a secret._ Instead, he laced his fingers through hers, bringing her closer to him. 

“You’re mine,” he stated, before leaning down to kiss her. Soft lips met his, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, licking at her, and he wondered briefly why he usually refrained from kissing. _Because this felt good. Why deny himself something that felt so exquisite? Vaguely, his mind tried to tell him something about kisses being too affectionate, too mushy for someone like him, but he ruthlessly squashed those thoughts._

“Did you know why I brought you up here?” he asked, almost breathlessly.

Her eyes opened again, heavy-lidded, hot, and the tip of her tongue traced her lips, heat shooting straight to his groin, before she answered: “I’m guessing, but… because this is where Dumbledore died?”

“Quite right,” he murmured, one hand already availing himself of her breast, squeezing her, tugging at her nipple through her thin robe. “I wanted to take you on the parapet where he fell.”

“So very you,” she muttered, almost shaking her head. “Hunting trophies, aren't you?” 

Voldemort pinched her nipple, making her gasp. “I’m interested in symbols, not trophies,” he corrected sternly. “Symbols are very important in magic, I’m sure you know that.” 

“I do,” she said, arching her back, pressing her chest into his hands. “I do know.” 

“That’s right, you like knowing things,” he muttered, pushing her back against the parapet, before hoisting her up to sit on the crenellation. 

She squeaked, holding on to him for dear life, pleading: “Don’t let me fall, please!” 

“I like it when you beg,” he murmured, sliding his hands up her legs underneath her robe. “I like it a lot.” 

“Please,” she whispered again, and he could see the uncertainty in her eyes. The uncertainty he inspired in her, the small residue of fear she still held on to. _Oh, how delightful to play on her fears._

Grinning savagely, he Levitated her slightly, pushing one hand underneath her, fingering her slit. 

“You love to be overpowered,” he whispered hoarsely, “and now, you are completely at my mercy. One push, and you’d be as dead as Dumbledore. Hold on, then, if you want to live.”

With a shriek, she flung her arms around his neck, pressing herself into him.

 _Though, he would never let her go like that, never, because he always took care of his things._

One hand fondling her pussy, and the other cupping her arse, he ground her pelvis into his straining cock. She was growing wetter, squirming on his fingers, and when he breached her, pushing one finger into the tight, silky wet heat of her core, she moaned.

"Yes,” he grunted, “you love this, don’t you?” His cock was throbbing, rock-hard, and he was aching for her cunt, wanting nothing more than to bury himself inside her. As he withdrew the finger that had penetrated her, freeing his cock with a tug of his robe, she whimpered for a moment.

Sinking her down on him made them both sigh in bliss, before he gripped her hips hard, bouncing her on his cock, while keeping up the Levitating spell, making her weightless in his arms.

She groaned, arching her hips just so to get friction on her clit, rubbing herself at him. 

The pressure around his cock tightened rhythmically, as she clenched her sex around him, and Voldemort couldn’t help it, he was driving faster into her, rushing towards his orgasm. 

His magic rose up, entering hers, and for a moment, he could have sworn he saw stars. He slithered into her, taking her over, filling her up, making her walls stroke against him, encompassing him into true bliss, _holding him,_ and he shuddered, his cock driving home in hard thrusts, jerking, before he was coming, pulsing into her, shooting what felt like jets of come into her.

He came down, back to himself, knowing that she had orgasmed too, from the drowsy afterglow in her eyes. Now, he was holding her, securely tucking her into his arms, and he could tell, she was no longer worried he’d throw her off the parapet. _Something was different. He could feel a residue of her magic in himself, a curling lick of flame, and he suspected she might feel the same thing._

Sighing, he guessed this was an aftereffect of the Mark he had given her. _Such a Mark would have to be completed by sex, wouldn’t it?_

Suddenly, his legs were giving out, and he hastily set her down, before Conjuring a thick, soft blanket to stretch out on. As an afterthought, he added a pillow too. 

Sinking down, reaching out a hand to pull her down with him, he muttered: “This was… I need to rest for a moment.” 

Somehow, it didn’t feel wrong to tell her such a thing, though he’d never admit to such weakness in front of his Death Eaters. 

The girl slid down to lay beside him, before she turned to study at him. Apparently deciding something from her observation, she scooted closer, tucking herself underneath his arm. 

Voldemort almost stiffened, before relaxing. _This felt good too, watching the stars, having the warm body of his lover resting against him, her smooth skin and silk robes sliding gently against him._

For a while they lay still, drowsily enjoying the afterglow. Lightly brushing her mind, he could feel _giddiness_ emanating from her, like her mind had gone on a high, slowly, gently drifting down from the pleasurable heights. 

Then she giggled. For some obscure reason, she felt the need to quip about his age: “There’ll be precious little rest after the baby is born. Are you sure you’re up to it, with your age?” She poked his chest with a finger, before the poke turned into a caress,a small hand petting his chest. 

Voldemort snorted. “Salazar himself begot my line at the age of ninety.” 

“That explains a lot,” she mumbled in return, continuing to giggle. _In her mind, idle thoughts of Muggle science drifted, which abounded with beliefs that children born of older fathers were prone to certain illnesses._

“You don’t know much about wizardkind, do you?” he asked half playfully, half seriously. “We aren’t the same as Muggles. We’re different. Thus, virility is something different altogether than for the Muggle male. Fertility too.” 

He could feel her roll her eyes, both literally, and figuratively in her mind. 

“This doesn’t explain…” she began, and he knew she was to pose the argument of Muggleborns. _Because that was the big, gaping hole in the theory of wizardkind as a species, which he supposedly supported. The idea of Muggleborns stealing the magic of Squibs was ridiculous, of course, but Voldemort wasn’t going to reveal his lack of faith in Pure-blood ideology to her. After all, he believed in power, and nothing else. There was only power, and those too weak to see it. On his scale, Muggles were lowlife scum. They had no power whatsoever, and thus, he could adhere to parts of the Pure-blood ideology of his prominent followers. Anyone with more than a passing interest in Muggle science would realize, magical power was a genetic variation, just like red hair or dark skin, but a superior, infinitely better and more powerful variation, nonetheless. The conclusion was obvious: Wizards and witches were different, and the power they held should be embraced._

Interrupting her, trying to throw her thoughts off track, he said: “Our son will be the scion of the most powerful family in wizardkind. My age will not matter to him. He will have the best this world can offer.” 

“He’ll be severely spoiled, then,” she said callously. 

Voldemort huffed, but the witch snuggled closer to his chest. 

“I meant to tell you, I want to name him John. After my father.” She patted her stomach, looking contentedly down at the swell. 

“That’s preposterous! A common, filthy Muggle name!” Voldemort drew himself up, narrowing his eyes at her. 

“Why?” she countered. “Your name is Tom, isn’t it?” 

“It’s not,” he hissed, irritation spiking. “You know that!” 

“What’s wrong with Tom? It’s your birth name, isn’t it, Tom?” she said in return, looking genuinely curious. 

”No witch of mine will call me Tom,” he said, suddenly furious. 

“Your witch?” 

“Yes, **_mine_**!” 

He sat up, and he could tell, her eyes were roving over his torso, watching him. _In her mind, he saw that she thought him to be too pale and thin, but his frame powerfully broad, with sinewy muscles that she knew could pin her down in a moment. And she liked that thought. Though she didn’t understand it herself, she liked_ **_him_ ** _. Voldemort felt … less … angry by that revelation._

Then she said slowly: “I always thought one had to care about people to say such things.” 

He snorted again. “You don’t know me all that well, do you? I always take care of my things.” 

“I’m not a thing!” Her eyes flashed menacingly, and he couldn’t help thinking, she looked pretty like this. _So bold, holding her own against him, like no one else dared to do._

“You belong to me, so consequently, you are one of my possessions,” he replied with an indifferent shrug, designed to rile her up. 

But she didn’t take the bait, this time. Biting her lip, she watched him. “I suppose no one does know you well.” 

He smiled lazily, pleased by her silent acceptance. “I made a point of exactly that, little witch, and you know me well enough to know that particular piece of information. That, in itself, might be more than a lot of other people know.”

Xxxx

“I take it, you did accept the Mark?” Snape asked, pouring her tea in his office again. 

She nodded. Fiddling with her sleeve, she decided to tell him: “It’s different. I don’t really know what he did to it.” 

“Can I see it?” 

Pulling up her sleeve, she mutely showed him her forearm. The glittering green snake and the golden skull were as vivid as they had been from the start, and to be frank, she thought it looked like a rather pretty tattoo. _A pretty tattoo, except for it tying her to the most evil wizard in Britain. Tying her even closer to him than expecting his child did, making her … his … in a way she had never wanted. Making her feel a tug on her loyalty, whenever she thought about him, like he was a small bundle of awareness, nestled in her brain. It made her uneasy, as if Voldemort now had a claim on her. As if her loyalty wasn’t only to her son and the Slytherin line, but to Voldemort himself too._

“Odd,” Snape remarked, examining the Mark, trailing his fingers lightly over the snake and the skull. “What does it do?” 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m not sure if he knows either. I got the impression this wasn’t a part of his plan.” 

“Ah. He improvised, didn’t he?” 

Hermione blinked at the Headmaster. Now, there was a sort of half-grin on his sallow face, like he was amused. 

“He sometimes does, he likes to tinker with spells, making variations,” Snape clarified, still grinning. “Though, he usually tests them on his unlucky subjects.” 

She snorted. “I bet he does. Maybe this works differently. Maybe I could Summon him too?” 

Drawing her wand, she pointed it at her Mark, but Snape half-shouted a shocked “No…!” 

But it was too late, and a tingling warmth, a tug, somewhere inside her, connected her to Voldemort. Gasping, she felt a gentle pulse of power rising, before it sharpened, forming her intention like an arrow flying straight and true. 

There was a rushing sound in her ears, lasting for barely a minute. Then she knew: Voldemort was close, just outside the Hogwarts perimeter. 

“It worked,” she whispered to Snape, eyes wide, “he’s coming!” 

Xxxx

His witch was having tea with Severus, both of them sitting politely with folded hands, awaiting him, the window already opened for his arrival. The Summons had felt like a pleasant tingle, a gentle tug, not at all like the burning sensation he inflicted on his Death Eaters when he Summoned them. 

When he felt it, he had been reading, relaxing with Nagini in his study.Though he felt fairly certain she hadn’t really meant to call him, he had decided to come. _It suited his plans, because he had instructions for her and Severus._

Besides, he was distracted from his book anyway, as Potter was whining, the emotional outburst ringing through Voldemort’s mind. As usual, it was a petty squabble of no importance. Potter wanted to go outside, to achieve something, not just waiting around in hiding, and someone had told him no. Voldemort sighed. _It was back to square one, then, with his noisy brat of an enemy._

_The young man had been sullen and glowering until July, when he suddenly had become cheerier. Voldemort thought it had something to do with the Weasley girl, the one his diary self had all but killed. At least, the girl had seemed to be a steady presence in Potter’s mind for the last weeks. To Voldemort’s great relief, she had seemed to calm Potter down, dampening his usual mood swings. A peaceful Potter in his head was far better than the customary moody and volatile one. But today, something had obviously happened, and Potter was back to his usual sulkiness. Not for the first time, Voldemort cursed the connection that had formed between him and Potter. Normally, it would be an asset to be able to look into an enemy’s mind, but Potter’s mind was a mess. Either, the young man was supremely unorganized, or maybe he was just that irrational._

_For quite some time, Voldemort had known that Potter had relied heavily on his friends to get anything done. After he had deprived them of Granger, Potter had no real plans for how to win the war, as far as Voldemort could tell. The boy was going to rely on sheer, dumb luck. Not like himself, who was well underway to win through meticulous planning._

Stepping down from the window sill into the Head’s office, his robes making the smooth transition from smoke to silk, he almost sighed as the soft fabric slid against his skin. 

Cocking his head at the girl, he said: “You called.” 

“I did,” she answered, a tad paler than usual. “I … I had no idea it worked this way.” 

“Now you do,” he said calmly, adding mentally to himself: _And so do I._

“Severus,” he inclined his head to his lieutenant, who was now kneeling, head bowed. “Rise.” 

Conjuring himself a chair beside his witch, he served himself with tea. _Severus always had the best brews, no matter if it was potions, tea or coffee. As it was, Voldemort was very particular about his coffee, and he surmised it had to do with his long years abroad in his youth. His tea had to be the very best quality, too. He would accept no less, not anymore._

“I wanted to discuss the event with the two of you,” he said, leaning back, inhaling the fragrant scent of the tea. _Darjeeling, he rather thought, probably a rare First Flush, and definitely from a Wizarding tea farm, one of the few in the mountainous region of India. He would have to order the Malfoy Elves’ to get a few pounds of this batch._

“You see, the Hogwarts’ grounds, with Albus Dumbledore’s grave in full view, will be the perfect spot for my public release of the Order. This is what we’ll do: We will set up the scene like we’re about to administer the Dementor’s Kiss, and then you will intervene, and I will grant them mercy. They will thank me, and promise to not stray.” 

They both gaped at him, but then the little witch said shakily: “How do I know you’re not tricking me, killing them in full view anyway?” 

There was a flick of irritation that she’d doubt him, and he said curtly: “You don’t, but I will keep my promise.” 

“What kind of Kiss were you planning to stage? Will there be one or more Dementors?” Severus asked diffidently. 

“Oh, a formal one, one Dementor for each of them. With Aurors, of course. We will make it seem to be within the boundaries of the justice system, of course,” he said, nodding benevolently at Severus. 

But his little witch wasn’t satisfied. In fact, her eyes were now brimming with tears. “I … I … don’t want to do this,” she almost wailed, “I would rather not see them.” 

He harrumphed. “Surely, you’re not afraid of them, are you?” 

“No, but… this will be awful, and they will believe… everything,” she finished lamely. 

“As it is, ‘everything’ is true,” he snapped. “This is not up for discussion, you will play your part.” 

He glared at her, and though her bottom lip quivered adorably, she eventually nodded. 

_Not that any of his decisions should be up for discussion, for that matter,_ he belatedly added to himself. _Maybe he was giving her too much leeway._ From the expression on Severus face, he rather thought so, and skimming the man’s surface thoughts - _difficult as it was given the man’s unholy Occlumency skill_ \- proved that his lieutenant was surprised that he hadn’t lashed out at the girl, allowing her to protest like this. 

“It will be tomorrow,” he said irritably, “at noon. Augustus is setting up everything with the Aurors and the Wizengamot, and the prisoners will arrive, heavily guarded, only moments before. Be ready. And you,” - he pointed at the little witch - “will wear your best dress. And my jewellry. Make sure to have a House-elf helping you dress.” 

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go to my rooms,” she said primily, “to check if I need to adjust my clothes.” As she rose, she made a small hand movement, indicating her growing belly, before tucking her robes around her. 

“Of course,” he said graciously. “I’ll be down in half an hour or so.” 

She looked half surprised, half annoyed, but merely nodded as she left. 

“So, tomorrow the Order is close to finished,” he remarked to Severus, stretching out his legs with a grunt of pleasure. 

“You aren’t going to kill them at the last minute?” the man said, peering at him with those inscrutable black eyes. 

“No, the plan is real,” he said, smiling at Severus. 

The Headmaster seemed to be relieved, and Voldemort knew Severus wanted McGonagall to survive, having a friendly attachment to the old hag. 

Naturally, he couldn’t resist poking into that. Tapping his chin, he said pensively, hiding his amusement: “It would, of course, be fun to test the Elder Wand in an execution, to see how my Killing Curse is affected by my mastery of it. We could always say McGonagall warranted an execution for killing that Auror.” 

Severus eyes’ widened comically, and he said nervously: “Miss Granger will be most upset, my Lord, and you shouldn’t do a public execution yourself. It would look … bad.” 

Voldemort grinned. “I’m only pulling your leg, Severus,” he said, letting the prank go, and the other man visibly let out a deep breath. 

Then he asked: “My Lord, is … how is the Elder Wand?” 

“Powerful,” he mused, “very much so. But only for duelling, I’m afraid. For all other spellwork, I might as well use my own wand.” 

Still, Severus shook his head, mumbling: “I can’t believe it, that the Hallows are real.” 

“They are,” Voldemort said cheerfully, “and the little witch provided me with the Cloak too.” 

“She did?” Severus stared at him, dumbfounded. 

“Oh, she didn’t plan to, but apparently, Potter left it in her care after one of their little fights, and I … merely picked it up.”

Severus groaned. “I should have known. That’s how Potter always managed to break the rules without being seen. That little idiot, having a Hallow in his grasp, and not…” He let out a frustrated sigh. 

Voldemort nodded in agreement. “He does seem to be fairly thick-headed,” he replied. 

“That means,” Severus said, “you only lack the Stone, my Lord?” 

“Yes...” Voldemort began, but a flash in the corner of his eye distracted him. There was a great deal of movement in one of the portraits, as if someone was very agitated. Turning around, he saw Dumbledore glaring at him with righteous anger. 

“Well hello,” Voldemort drawled, “fancy seeing you, Albus.” 

“Hello, Tom - Headmaster,” the other man gritted out. 

Severus was staring at Dumbledore, his blank mask back on, presumably hiding some emotion or other. 

“You wouldn’t know anything about the Stone, now would you?” Voldemort said, spinning his wand between his fingers. “And by the way, thank you for the Elder Wand.” With a flourish, he presented the Elder Wand to the portrait, making Albus narrow his eyes. 

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell _you_ ,” the portrait said petulantly. 

Voldemort barked a laugh. “I wouldn’t expect it. But I am curious, though, why you left Potter floundering with clues and riddles. Why didn’t you just tell him? Because of you, he has now lost the Cloak to me.”

Albus sighed, hiding his face in his palm. “The boy’s impetuous,” he muttered. 

“You can say that again,” Severus mumbled to himself. 

“The Stone is dangerous,” Albus said, his voice reedy from the painting. “People get lost in its power, tempted to see their loved ones again - and again.” 

Voldemort shrugged. “It really isn’t, to me. There’s no one in the world I want to resurrect.” 

Dumbledore rolled his eyes. “I know, Tom, I know. This is your greatest weakness, your lack of caring and respect for other people. I wish you would see the worth of at least one person in your life, to make you try to do at least some good to another. As it is, all your power and intelligence is wasted on someone like you, Tom. What would you need the Stone for anyway?” 

Voldemort shifted in his chair, his thoughts flying to his little witch. Clearing his throat, chasing away the stray idea that _she was important_ , he continued relentlessly: “You must have meant for them to figure it out. You let Granger inherit the book, and she, of course, was well on her way to see the importance of the Hallows. What did you gift Potter and Weasley? Another half-arsed set of clues, or did you put all your eggs in a basket named Granger?” 

Miffed, the portrait glared at him, before he straightened, rising from his chair, making the paint shift and flow. 

“Nice seeing you, Headmaster,” Albus said tartly with a nod to Severus, before he left, leaving his frame empty. 

Xxxx 

  
  


Voldemort was browsing through her book collection, and she was in her favourite chair, her feet up high. The pregnancy had started to affect her, and by the end of the day, she often felt tired, her feet and back aching. 

Her hair was still damp after her shower, and he was padding around barefoot, black robe hanging open. Herself, she was reading another ancient scroll, relating the early history of sleeping draughts, and how some of them had been combined with long-lost spells to attain greater effect. 

The sex had been good, like always, and he was obviously planning to stay the night. It still surprised her when it happened, though she couldn’t deny that she had come to look forward to those lazy morning shags, when he was less rough and the sex was drowsy and slow. 

“Did you read this?” he asked, holding out a book on duelling techniques. 

“Yes,” she said, “I thought it was fairly interesting. Though, I meant to ask you…” She stopped, not really sure if he would deign to answer her questions. _He was under no obligation to teach her, though he had at times shown her useful things._

“Go on,” he prompted, looking expectantly at her, red eyes glimmering in the dim light from the fireplace. 

“You told me earlier, it was important to be physically fit for duelling, but this book doesn’t say anything about that. Is it … not a well known fact?” 

_She couldn’t help wondering, because both McGonagall and Dumbledore were old and not particularly fit, though no one would say they were lacking in a duel._

“It’s not,” he said dismissively, “thanks to Albus Dumbledore influencing a generation of researchers and duellers. Still… It’s not a matter of your physical strength, but of being flexible and enduring the strain. You might say, you need to embrace the physicality of your spellcasting, throwing your body, soul and mind into it.” 

“But what about old people?” she asked, not entirely satisfied with his answer. 

Voldemort gave her a wry smile. “You mean Dumbledore.” 

“Yes,” she said, knowing full well that he and Voldemort had been very evenly matched in the Battle of the Ministry. 

“Dumbledore…” he mused. “Well, you could say he was a special case. He was very powerful, but he also drew on a lifetime of duelling experience. He still knew how to move, to boost his body with his magic, and his magic with his body, and consequently, he was able to negate the adversary effects of his aging. Not many could do that, though.” 

“Can you show me?” she asked impulsively. 

At that, his eyes darkened, like the fire within smouldered, but he nodded, producing his wand. 

“Watch, like this,” he said, holding her gaze, moving fluently into his duelling stance. 

Tension coiled in her stomach, and she was holding her breath - _what had she done? Had she asked him to hex her, or…?_

With a sudden movement, he lunged, wand pointed at her, and wide-eyed, she saw a cloud of smoke passing over her, like the ghost of a spell. Still, her ever-curious mind made note of what he was doing. 

_Body held at the ready, muscles tensing, before he released it all - putting the energy from his body behind the magic, in an all-out attack, the weight of his body behind his wand movement, his strong muscles lashing out in time with his magic, creating a powerful flow, a conduit for his casting._

“I see,” she sighed, trying to fix the memory of it in her mind, to be repeated later on. _She could try to emulate this. She could do it. She was Hermione Granger, and she always succeeded._

Her thoughts seemed tinny and fake, like a pathetic attempt at self-boosting, like she thought she could do something Dumbledore and Voldemort had spent years and years perfecting, but somewhere, inside her core, there was a small voice saying insistently: _It’s true, though! You know you can do it._

Moving towards her, Voldemort looked curiously at her. “Do you always listen and watch so attentively?” 

“I always do,” she simply said. _It was the truth, because she always paid attention when there was an opportunity to learn something._

Nodding, his expression oddly pleased, Voldemort said: “Come to bed, little witch. Great minds must sleep too.” 

  
  


Xxxx

  
  


A talkative House-elf made her hair, and again, she looked not quite like herself. In the mirror, there was a visibly pregnant, pretty young woman, her body sheathed in black silk, showing a generous cleavage with the pregnancy-induced increased size of her breasts. 

Her rooms were more than immaculate, her recent research tucked away, hidden between the orderly piles of parchments for the building project. Last night, before Voldemort had entered her chambers, she had gathered her notes, spelling them with a quick “Notice-Me-Not.” 

Having put on the ear-rings, the silver at first cold, before the long snakes curiously warmed up to her body temperature, she turned to take the snake necklace out of its box. 

Behind her, Voldemort was already holding the heavy Slytherin necklace in his hands. 

“Stunning,” Voldemort murmured, as he himself clasped the necklace around her throat, the snake nestling its head between her breasts, tickling her. 

Then he lifted the diadem out of its box, and there was a certain solemnity in his expression, as he turned her to face the mirror, standing behind her, and crowning her with the two writhing snakes. The snakes settled on her head like they belonged there. 

Expelling a deep breath when his hands clasped her shoulders, she hadn’t quite realized she had been holding it in. 

“Today, I want you to be a good witch for me,” he muttered, “play your role well. You can cry when you beg me, if you’d like. You look so pretty when you cry. I will make it up to you later.” He ground his hips against her back suggestively, and she blushed. 

_Merlin, now all she would think about was that he would be turned on by her crying, and that he was forcing her to act …_ A sudden surge of desire shot through her, and she swallowed. 

A long-fingered hand came up to caress her breast, playing with her nipple through her dress, and he whispered: “I know you like a little humiliation. The Order and the whole Wizarding world will see you beg for my mercy. I’m sure, you will be soaked, my sweet.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort's ideology is the most troublesome part of writing him for me. I always need to tweak it, to make it work. That's because I want him to be rational, and it's fairly obvious that the idea of Muggleborns stealing magic is really, really far out and silly. Though, it's harder to take away his contempt for Muggles and still keep him in character. I wish I could, but I can't make that work in a story without changing something fundamental about him.


	23. Underprivileged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first, she didn’t realize where they were going, but then she understood. 
> 
> “No,” she said, stopping, “no way, I’m not doing that.” 
> 
> “Sssh,” he hissed disdainfully, “it’s just a dead body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really humbled by the love you show for this story. Thank you so much! 
> 
> When I started writing this, I really thought there was only a few people out there who would want to read a story about Hermione and Voldemort in his snake-faced form. And yet, here we are. *grins*

The whole of the Wizengamot had turned out, as well as spectators from Hogsmeade and the Ministry, plus - _of course_ \- ranks upon ranks of Death Eaters. More than thirty Aurors guarded the prisoners, wands bristling, ten of them constantly circling the perimeter on their brooms. 

Snape had opened the great gates to allow the general public entrance to the Hogwarts grounds, and tall, wooden stands had been erected, giving everyone a full view of the lake and Dumbledore’s pristinely white tomb. 

The August noonday sun was battering down from a clear blue sky, giving her a headache with its glare, and she felt sweat start to pool in her armpits. _Though she knew, this was more due to her nervousness in this awkward situation, than from the heat. After all, she was a witch, wasn’t she, and her Cooling Charm was in place._

Voldemort led her to a seat beside his chair on a small daise, and only when she had sat down, did she let her eyes seek out the four convicts. The four of them stood still, hands clasped in heavy chains, watching the proceedings with blank faces, like they couldn’t care less. 

Glancing around, she saw that hundreds of people had come to watch. It was a small wonder that Harry and Ron seemed to keep away, wherever they were, instead of barging in, trying to save everyone: McGonagall, Shacklebolt and Ron’s parents. _She would have expected no less, given how the boys routinely stumbled into mayhem._

_It felt like a horrible dream, seeing McGonagall and the rest again, seeing the Order brought so low. And yet, to see the people who had tried to kill her, to kill her baby, was harder than she had expected. On one level, she thought they would deserve their souls sucked out for what they had tried to do, but on the other hand… Rage and protectiveness boiled inside her, warring with the smidge of loyalty she still felt to the Order. No, not the Order, she corrected herself, to the Order’s cause. But … her loyalty was now first and foremost to her baby. To Slytherin’s line, as it was._

Voldemort reached out a hand, holding hers firmly in his large, calloused palm, and she nodded to him, reassuring him that she’d stick to the plan. _Executing it with flair, even. After all, she was Hermione Granger,_ she reassured herself. 

Still… all the trappings of her acting like his Lady was in place, and her stomach felt sour, churning like acid. _Everyone would see. Everyone would believe, no matter her reasons for doing this. Everyone would think her loyalty was to the monster by her side, and she didn’t want to acknowledge that tug inside her, telling her that she held an attachment to him. Like her loyalty had made another shift due to a bond that might be caused by his Mark, or …_

Someone from the Wizengamot rose, reading out the charges of insurrection, uprising, attempted murder of an innocent pregnant woman, as well as the murder of an Auror. At that, the Aurors rustled, muttering angrily amongst themselves, glaring intently at Professor McGonagall. The old witch stood still, head raised with her usual haughty demeanor, not even blinking in the face of her judges. Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Weasleys looked more uneasy, sending frequent glances in the direction of Voldemort, probably wondering if he would keep his promise. 

Though, when their glances passed Hermione, she couldn’t help flinching inside at the disgust and revulsion visible on their faces. _It felt awful that the people she had trusted, the people she still tried to help, held such contempt for her. At the same time, each glance filled with loathing chipped away at her belief in the Order. They had tried to kill her and her baby, hadn’t they? Were they really any better than the Death Eaters? Like Voldemort himself, killing Lily Potter in front of her child? Why should she feel any kind of obligation to these people?_

The proceedings were soon over, and the Wizengamot ruled as expected: to administer the Dementor’s Kiss. 

Hermione felt her heart start to hammer. Soon, it would be her cue. Soon, she would have to act. The Slytherin diadem felt heavy on her head, pressing in, like the snakes demanded she did as she had promised the Heir of Slytherin, or else they would crush her skull for not staying true to the Slytherins. 

The sun hammered mercilessly down on the assembly, many mopping their foreheads, and some of the elderly Wizengamot members drank discretely from their wands, casting muttered Charms like the “ _Aguamenti_.”

The prisoners’ magic were restrained, and sweat poured freely down their faces, and she could see, both Molly and Arthur were getting sunburns. They looked pitiful and tired, all of them, McGonagall seemed much too thin, and all of their clothes were ragged, hair matted and their faces dirty. 

Four Dementors glided forward, closing in on the prisoners, and now, fear finally shone through on their faces, their chains rattling as they tried to signal something with their hands, desperately calling for Voldemort’s attention. 

Then, Hermione realized they were Silenced. _Voldemort had told them he’d spare their life, but at this point, they obviously thought that had been some sort of sick joke, to lull them into safety before they had their souls sucked out._

_It was a joke, indeed, because she could see Voldemort’s face, and even though he’d seem cold and impassionate to most, she could see his mouth quirking in genuine mirth, as the Order thought they had been tricked._

_But they weren’t._

Sighing heavily, she rose, casting a silent “ _Sonorous”_ on her throat, magnifying her voice. “Stop,” she yelled, the spell making her voice thunder across the grounds. Stepping forward, she strode towards the Dementors, wand raised. The four of them had turned towards her, but then the Dementors turned back, closing in on their victims instead, like they knew they had to hurry, and she called up the memory of how she loved her son, shouting: “ _Expecto Patronum!”_

There was a gasp from the crowd, as her shimmering snake shot out of her wand, streaking towards the Dementors, forcing them back from the four Order members, before rounding them up, undulating around them, keeping the dark, dreadful shapes contained within its coils. 

Turning toward Voldemort, she walked back towards him, kneeling in front of him to put on the show he wanted.

Looking up at him pleadingly, beseeching him, she said: “Will you not save them, my Lord? They are misguided, needing help, and I forgive them for what they did to me. Please, can you show mercy? Find some other punishment that will spare their souls? Please, my Lord, for me - for your son.” 

Her words sounded hollow to her own ears, but the crowd rustled, hundreds of voices whispering, and Lord Voldemort nodded, rising from his chair, reaching out his hand, to raise her up from her kneeling position. One hand grasping his, she rose, clutching her belly demurely with the other. 

“Minister Pius Thicknesse isn’t here today, due to an unfortunate illness,” he said, his own voice magnified, “but he has invested me today with the Minister’s power to rule in matters of law and justice. You are good and kindhearted, Hermione, and even though these people did you wrong, gravely so, you still beg for their sorry souls. I will grant you this, for your conscience, for our son, but I do rule that they are to be contained at home for the next five years for the safety of the public. Minerva McGonagall, however, will be in house arrest for the next ten years for killing an Auror. I will place the bindings and wardings on their persons myself, and the Aurors will ward their houses. What say the Wizengamot?” 

And just like they had practised it - _or maybe they had, for that matter, or maybe they had just been Imperio’ed -_ the Wizengamot shouted as one: “Yes, my Lord, this is just!” 

Xxxx

The aftermath had been dizzying, everyone still a little wide-eyed at her giant snake Patronus, Voldemort Cursing the prisoners to stay confined, Aurors getting ready to take them away to their homes, the Death Eaters milling about as the Wizengamot slowly departed. 

Before the prisoners were Apparated off, Hermione slowly drifted over to McGonagall, standing just in front of the old witch. She thought of how surprised Voldemort had been at the curses they had flung at her, and how Snape had said he never thought McGonagall would have tried to kill her. The image of the old witch trying to kill her still warred with her memories of McGonagall as her stern but kind favourite teacher. 

At this point, the old Professor just looked bone tired, but she gazed at Hermione, her face blank. Then her voice croaked, like her throat was parched after an hour in the summer sun: “Did you really intervene, or was that a lie too?” 

Hermione’s head snapped up, and she realized, the Head of the Order would have done the same thing again. _She thought it would be truly better for the Greater Good, if Hermione was dead._ Tears rose unbidden in her eyes, as she for the first time really took in that McGonagall had **wanted** to kill her and her baby. _Really kill her, aiming to end her life, taking her unborn son with her into her death. Because she thought it was right and just._

A shiver trickled down her spine, making her straighten herself. _She’d never let this witch, or anyone else, harm her baby. Rather than that, she’d join Voldemort a thousand times._ Looking McGonagall straight in the face, she replied: “No lies, but the price was high.” 

Giving her former Head of House a level look, hiding her disappointment - _though what had she expected?_ \- Hermione turned around, walking back to stand by Voldemort’s side. When one large, cold hand took hers, dwarfing her own, she leaned gratefully against him. Sighing deeply, she realized she was taking comfort from Voldemort, of all people. _But who else was there for her?_

In the end, Snape closed the heavy gates of Hogwarts with a loud clanging noise, the winged boars at the gate snapping to attention, once more guarding the great gate to the grounds, and then it was only her, Snape and Voldemort left. 

“My Lord,” Snape said, bowing his head, “this was a splendid performance.”

“It was,” the Dark Lord agreed, smiling that horrible smile of his, and he petted Hermione’s arm: “You were magnificent, my dear.” 

“Thank you,” she said tartly. Her performance had left a sour taste - _because she had been torn, wanting to save them and yet not, and maybe, just maybe, she had come to the realization that the price of saving them had been too high -_ making her feel truly awful. 

“You can leave us, Severus,” Voldemort said, brushing off the Headmaster with a nod. 

Snape jerked his head in what must have been an attempt to nod, and marched up to the castle. 

“Now,” Voldemort said silkily, “we celebrate the downfall of the Order, you and I.” 

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” she asked, her voice almost pleading. _She definitely didn’t want anymore outdoor sex. Not here, not in this heat._

“We’ll stay outside,” he said firmly, grabbing her arm, leading her in the direction of Albus Dumbledore’s tomb. 

At first, she didn’t realize where they were going, but then she understood. 

“No,” she said, stopping, “no way, I’m not doing that.” 

“Sssh,” he said disdainfully, “it’s just a dead body.” 

“It’s more than that,” she snapped. 

Voldemort nodded, red eyes looking hungrily at her, and he said: “Yes. It’s a symbol too, of the broken Order. Today, I’ve crushed them, and I want to celebrate. With you.” 

Shivering, she looked over at the white tomb. It was blindingly white in the sunlight, looking for all the world so pure and pristine, if it wasn’t for the great crack running across it, where Voldemort had split it open, robbing Albus Dumbledore of the Elder Wand. 

Something inside her didn’t want to challenge Voldemort right now, because she was afraid: Afraid he might force her, afraid he might try to take her unwillingly. And now, a part of herself, a stupid, silly part of her, wanted him to be _better_ than that, because today, she couldn’t handle more emotional upheaval. She needed to lull herself into the belief that not everyone wanted to harm her. There had to be at least one person in this world, _even if it was Voldemort_ , that would keep her safe. _Better not challenge him. Not today. It was a symbol. It’s just a body,_ she told herself, _you can do this too._

Dragging her feet, she followed him over. 

He hoisted her up, seating her on the edge, and pulled her dress up. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, “so beautiful with the Slytherin set.” Running his hands up her legs, he swallowed, and the bulge on his robes told her he was more than ready. 

His power snaked itself insidiously around hers, and like always, her magic was purring, needing him inside, longing for the hard thrusts of her lover, readying her body for the onslaught of his. 

Almost without her noticing, so preoccupied with running her hands over his broad chest, feeling the hard planes underneath his silk robe, he had positioned himself between her legs, his robe opening, and he took himself in hand, fisting his weeping cock a few times, before ramming himself in her with a surprising ferocity. 

“Oooh,” she moaned, feeling close to bursting, the thickness of him making her squirm. 

“So good,” he grunted, “so very good, my little witch.” One of his hands gripped her hip bruisingly hard, but his other arm came around her back, supporting her, with a surprising tenderness. 

She leaned back, feeling safe - _he would hold her, he wouldn’t let her go, not anymore -_ and the shift of her body made her clit grind against his pelvis, sending tremors through her belly. 

Her magic was already scaling the ladder of ecstacy, forcing her body to follow, climbing with each thrust, his eager pumping making her arch her back, her walls fluttering, and as he slid a hand between them, mashing his fingers against her clit, she exploded into glittering shards of black guilt, red hot passion and dazzling bright light. 

Trembling around him, she clenched, panting, and her little cries made him swear, before he jerked inside her, shouting incoherently: “Victory … you … mine … my witch!” 

Xxxx 

  
  
It was a grey and blustery day, with the kind of weather that foretold the looming shadow of autumn. 

This was her first walk with Perenella after her fight with Snape, and the girl looked despondent, like a wilting flower. _That is, if a flower could be angry and bitter._

The bruises had faded, and Perenella’s pretty face was again unblemished. She had turned down all Hermione’s offers on Healing and Potions with curt notes of: _‘I guess I need to see the marks to know they’re real. Or else, I might forgive him.’_

While that was a bit harsh by Hermione’s standards, she could see the point Perenella was making. _Too many witches and women stayed with or returned to an abusive husband. The memory of the bruises was helping Perenella to realize, this hadn’t been a bad dream. It was all real._

They took shelter from the wind on the covered, wooden bridge, the timber creaking as the gusts of wind tore through the ravine. Hermione stopped, cradling her bump, noticing that Perenella was as slim as always. Furrowing her brow, she thought it odd that the woman wasn’t showing at all in her fifth month. 

“You’re very slim still,” she said carefully, waving her hand at Perenella’s waist. 

The other girl smiled bitterly. “You never saw it, did you, for all your cleverness? I’m not pregnant, and I haven't been for a long time.” 

Hermione drew a shocked breath, feeling as if her eyes widened comically. “You haven’t been pregnant?” The implications were staggering. _Did Snape know?_

“Yes - or no.” Perenella hugged herself, leaning on the railing, staring down into the moss-covered ravine. “I was so happy when I found out I was pregnant. You see, Severus has been my crush since fifth year, and when he, at the Equinox, I thought…” 

She blew a stray lock of hair away from her face, smiling wistfully. “Nevermind. I was also happy, because he was supposed to be my way into the higher circles, I mean, a marriage like that would catapult me to sit beside the likes of Narcissa Malfoy. But then…” 

Hermione held her breath, staring at the pretty redhead, though Perenella was now sniffling. The girl had turned around, sitting on the old railing, her back to one of the pillars, her legs up. 

“We were well underway planning the wedding, and I knew he hated it, really, really hated it, but I thought, he’d grow to love me, our family. And then I lost the baby.” 

“You lost the baby before the wedding?” Hermione asked. 

“Yes, weeks before. It was ...awful, and I couldn’t tell anyone. But I wanted him so much, what we could achieve in society together, and… I didn’t tell him. He doesn’t know.” 

“Oh,” Hermione breathed, clutching her belly protectively. _Her mind was in turmoil: On one hand, she felt so sorry for Perenella, losing her baby, and what with her hopeless crush on Snape, who loved another woman. But also a simmering anger, because Perenella had put Snape through hell, forcing him to marry for one reason only, that being their child. Then she had tricked him into believing she was still pregnant … and when it didn’t turn out to her liking, she had cheated on him. And in turn, he had hit her. What an awful, fucking mess they had made out of their relationship._

“I know he hates me,” Perenella said, shaking her head. “I’m too young to live with a man who detests me, who can only deign to fuck me when he’s pretending I’m someone else, whoever this ‘Lily’ person is.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

Perenella laughed bitterly. “I haven’t the faintest clue. My family would disown me for divorcing him. I don’t want a man who thinks a fight and a little duel is a good enough reason for him to hit me, and he certainly doesn’t want me.” 

Inside Hermione, she felt like a storm was moving. A storm consisting of pity and anger, churning into a tornado, growing, as she had no outlet for her confused feelings, this thing - _the magic_ \- taking control over her… 

Then, there was an ominous creaking noise. Perenella and Hermione both stiffened, both becoming alert, but it was too late. Somehow, inexplicably, the old railing was giving away, the timber breaking apart, and Perenella tried to scramble for a hold, the railing underneath her collapsing. 

For a brief moment, Hermine knew she could have saved her. She **should** have done something, Levitating the girl to safety, slowing her descent at least, but she felt like she was frozen. Frozen, like an unwilling spectator, unable to point her wand, helping someone in need. 

For a second, it seemed like she had all the time in the world to make her decisions, but then ... she hadn’t. Time seemed to speed up, and she couldn’t do anything but watch, her wand hand curiously limp at her side. 

With a shriek Perenella went over the edge, and within two seconds, she was a crumpled thing on the moss far below, a red pool spreading from underneath her body. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh.


	24. Underpinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to kill anyone,” she whispered, not meeting his eyes anymore. 
> 
> “You don’t have to,” he said, almost gently, Levitating her from the bed and straight into his arms. “You only need to watch me do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually amazed by the fact so many of you reacted to what happened to Perenella - in one way or the other. ;-) Thank you so much! 
> 
> I rarely write OC's, and she was supposed to be just an annoying character who'd deserve what happened to her. Then, she needed a backstory, and I fleshed out a little more of the unlucky Snape marriage. She grew on me, but it was always going to end badly. Oh well. 
> 
> Updated the tags with minor character deaths. I should probably stated that from the start...
> 
> Are you ready for more ritual sex? I was, apparently. *grins*

_Was it me?_  
 _Was it the wind?_ _  
Was it an accident?_

The questions were churning in her mind as she walked through the castle on her way to the gargoyle. She had tried to cast her Patronus to alert Snape, but the shock and grief had made it all but impossible to produce more than a thin wisp of silver. Now, she felt like she should be hurrying. Instead, her feet were leaden, slowing her down, even though her mind screamed for her to run, each step on the stone floor sounding like a thud of doom in the empty castle. 

_How do you tell a man his wife just died? Not only that, but that his child had died in the womb months ago, and his dead wife had tricked him into an unwanted marriage?_

Whispering the new password: _“Lilium Bulbiferum,”_ the gargoyle let her enter, and the moving stairs took her up, up, up to a conversation she’d never ever want to have. 

“What bring you here at this time?” Snape asked, not looking up from his work, quill continuing to scribble furiously, his cramped handwriting slowly filling a large piece of parchment, but Hermione couldn’t get a word out. 

“Speak up!” he said, though not unfriendly, before putting aside his quill. When he looked up, his expression became alarmed. Hermione knew, she must look like she had seen a ghost. 

“What happened?” he asked worriedly. 

“Perenella…” she whispered hoarsely, before she pointed to her head. 

“Legilimency, please… I can’t…” 

He rose, moving quickly towards her, pointing his wand at her: “ _Legilimency!”_

The memory flashed through her mind, and she felt big fat teardrops fall from her eyes. 

Snape’s face became more blank and expressionless than she had ever seen it, and when the memory had played out, he turned around, moving woodenly towards the window, keeping his back to her. He stood still, standing straight and tall in his frock coat, seemingly just like normal, but she knew he felt anything but. 

“Severus…” she whispered, for the first time using the first name of her friend, “Severus, I’m so sorry.” 

“I should have known,” he said monotonously. “I should have known something was wrong. I had started to wonder, but…” 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, spreading her hands out helplessly. “I wish I had done something, been faster, or…” 

His shoulders slumped, he said hoarsely: “It wasn’t your fault, I think. Maybe … no, well. There were no solutions to this mess. Maybe this was for the ...” 

Drawing his wand, he set it to his left arm, Summoning Voldemort with a wince, like a twinge of pain shot through him. 

He turned around, looking at her, and again she thought he looked lost, just like after his fight with Perenella. _Funny, before she would never have thought Severus Snape_ **_could_ ** _look lost, not after knowing how stern and forbidding he was in his classroom. But now, he really was lost._

Impulsively, she went to him, hugging him. Again, he stiffened, before embracing her too. 

For a moment, they stood like that, and then he stepped back, reluctantly. “The Dark Lord wouldn’t like to see this,” he murmured, voice thick. 

They looked at each other, before Hermione nodded, saying slowly: “He probably wouldn’t, though it’s nothing wrong…” 

He snorted bitterly. “He might see it differently. He’s very possessive. The others are saying…” he stopped abruptly, at the rushing sound from the outside, signalling the Dark Lord’s arrival. 

Xxxx

“What is the matter, Severus?” he asked irritably, hopping down from the window sill. Severus looked paler than usual, but so did his little witch, wringing her small hands, standing beside his lieutenant. 

“What’s wrong?” he said, peering at both of them. 

“My wife passed away. In an accident,” Severus said solemnly. “I wanted to tell you, before I inform the Averys.” 

“An accident?” Voldemort almost blinked in surprise. “Well, you have my condolences for your heir and your wife.” He felt, though, that Severus wasn’t being entirely truthful. _Maybe the man had killed his wife. Then it would be only reasonable of him to try to secure Voldemort’s support, before confronting the Averys._

As he narrowed his eyes, about to interrogate Severus on this strange matter - _so very convenient for a man who hated his wife -_ the Headmaster rushed to explain: “I’ve also discovered she wasn’t really pregnant, my Lord. She had lost the baby, long before the wedding, and neglected to inform me.” 

“An accident…” Voldemort repeated, now feeling more than mildly curious. _The Avery girl must have been more of a cunning nature that he had thought. Truth to be told, he had considered her to be dull, boring and utterly useless. Such a shame then, that he only discovered her deviousness after her death. Oh well, she wasn’t much of a loss for his cause. Severus would be happier by this turn of events, at least._

His little witch squirmed, looking very uncomfortable, and Severus gave her a quick glance. 

Cocking his head, he looked at her, feeling flashes of dark guilt, grief and disbelief course through her. Entering her mind more fully, he saw how she had let the girl die, knowing full well she could save her. And that swirl of her magic and the sudden collapse of the railing… _She had chosen death over life. His little witch was a killer, albeit a passive one._

Voldemort gave her a full on grin, feeling something warm stir inside his chest, breathing out: “Admirable, my dear.” 

Xxxx

The work on the house was finished, all according to plan. For the time being, Hermione had buried herself in research, reading up on rituals, pouring over ancient texts and obscure runic scrolls, studying the history of potions as well as certain legends. 

_She was on to something, feeling like a hound following a trail, tracking elusive clues, piecing snippets together into a theory. There was so much knowledge out there, but so few wizards and witches had apparently bothered to do proper research. Guesswork, wild ideas and partial results abounded, but among them, she could see nuggets of gold - or rather nuggets of a magical theory, as it was. Ancient, more than half forgotten, but still, all the clues were there for her to puzzle together, to rediscover fascinating truths._

Though late at night, she could admit to herself, that the nervous, fervent energy poured into her research was really her grief, redirected. She missed Perenella more than she had thought. The fact remained, Perenella had tricked her husband atrociously, while he treated her cruelly in turn. _Still,_ _Perenella hadn’t deserved this, and why - oh why - had Hermione only discovered the girl’s tragic infatuation with her husband moments before her death? Why hadn’t Perenella confided in her? Hermione could have helped - would have helped - to mediate some kind of truce between the spouses. She had failed as a friend, failed as a human. She should have been_ ** _better_** _._

Perenella had proved to be a daily relief from the silence in the empty castle. She had frequently bored Hermione almost to tears by talking about home decoration or clothes - that was, until Hemrione herself had started her own work on Riddle House. Then, the girl’s input had become valuable. 

Her thoughts shied away from how exactly Perenella had fallen to her death, but at night, the thoughts kept churning, leaving her sleepless in her great fourposter, tossing and turning in her silk sheets. _Had she played a part? She had been so upset, listening to Perenella’s story, and she had felt her magic surging, but surely not._ Voldemort had seemed to think she had deliberately chosen Perenella’s death, but Hermione wasn’t so sure - couldn’t, wouldn’t be sure. _Rather, she had felt paralyzed._ Desperately, she tried to reassure herself. _Of course she hadn’t caused this, she was a good person! Still, she knew she could have saved the girl. She should have. She was turning into something awful, someone despicable._

Now, there was only Snape or Voldemort she could talk to, if she wasn’t about to strike up a conversation with Filch. Snape seemed to be somewhat happier, as cruel as it was.

_It was like a burden was lifted from his shoulders, and haltingly, he had explained it to Hermione: “Now, I’m not betraying Lily anymore. I’m all hers, like always. Though …” he had admitted, somewhat reluctantly, “Perenella didn’t deserve all this.” His gesture included himself, and a grimace of self-loathing had flitted over his normally stoic features._

_In close cooperation with the Averys, Snape had also arranged a big funeral, which Hermione had attended on Voldemort’s arm. The photographers had gone wild as she had cried, and the Dark Lord had held her, rubbing her back in slow, careful circles, pretending to comfort her. The fact that she had truly found comfort in his arms was entirely her own problem. Anyway, the press seemed to soak it up. Hermione felt queasy, knowing that her very real grief was utilized ruthlessly by him to bolster his own image._

“What are you reading?” 

Months ago, she would have shrieked in shock, suddenly hearing his voice in her bedchamber, but now, she only nodded in greeting. “Ritual magic. The work by Gregor the Gruesome, the edition from 1285,” she said, not lifting her eyes from the scroll. 

“That’s a good one,” he remarked, coming closer to her bed. 

“Yes,” she muttered, before rolling up the scroll, looking up at him. 

“Tonight, we’ll inaugurate the house,” he informed her, holding out a hand to her. 

Blinking, she stared at him. _He wanted her participation in the ritual. That would mean one of the rituals involving sex, possibly blood, and maybe even…_ her mind shuddered. 

Licking her suddenly dry lips, she said: “Which ritual did you decide to use?” 

“Oh, with some modifications, we’re going to make the house sentient,” he said, staring at her with unblinking red eyes, making her squirm in discomfort. 

Paling, she muttered: “With a sacrifice?” 

“Of course,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but he squeezed her hand like he wanted to reassure her. _Like she could ever be reassured, when Lord Voldemort had decided to let her join in a ritual involving human sacrifice._

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” she whispered, not meeting his eyes anymore. _This would make her into that truly awful person she had come to fear she was turning into. Someone who walked through life, dealing out deaths and pain without any kind of remorse. Already, she had caused the death of Alecto Carrow, and now perhaps Perenella. She would be someone who was like … him._

“You don’t have to,” he said, almost gently, Levitating her from the bed and straight into his arms. “You only need to watch me do it.” 

The rushing sound as he took off with her, the feeling of being dissolved like smoke as they rose high above Hogwarts to soar among the stars on their way to Little Hangleton soothed her, but her fear was back when he let her down, this time landing on the soft, dewy grass in the now well-tended garden. The house stood silent, looking splendid, in the faint light from the stars. The moon was waning, only a thin sliver in the skies, and the late summer evening had a chill to it. 

There, in the garden, two bodies lay slumped, cowls covering their faces, but they were clearly unconscious. With a flick of Voldemort’s wand, they were airborne, floating towards the door, bobbing slightly in the cool air, limbs hanging limply.

Hermione couldn’t see who it was, but bile rose in her throat. _Voldemort was about to kill them, whoever they were, and she couldn’t do anything about it. It was all wrong, too terrible, but … she had read enough about house inaugurations over the last months to know that those involving human sacrifices were the strongest rituals in existence._

_No matter her own feelings about this spell, her son would be completely protected on a property warded with this spell. No one would be able to harm him. And, she knew, Lord Voldemort’s son would be in danger from the moment he was born. So many people could possibly be trying to harm him, just to get to his powerful father. As horrible as it was, her son needed this. She would have to endure this, standing by as her lover killed to protect their family. But … it was so wrong._

“In the drawing room,” Voldemort said curtly, nodding to her. 

The two bodies trailed after them in the air, before he let them fall into a heap in the middle of the floor, robes still covering their features. 

Then, she couldn’t hold back anymore. With an anguished whisper, she asked: “Must we?” 

Voldemort turned to her, a serious expression on his face. “We do. I think you know why. My son will be a target - _you_ are a target - and I need to know that you will be safe when I’m not there. That’s why we have to put up enchantments for this house to rival Hogwarts’, to keep you just as safe as you have been there. No one will be able to hurt you within the bounds of my property. No one can kidnap you or kill you. Our son will be protected from harm, even childhood accidents like falling from trees or windows. This will keep both of you safe, and yes, Hermione, **we must**.” 

Her lips quivering, her sense of justice surged. _This was so wrong, killing people for her own family’s gain! It shouldn’t be necessary to go to such extremes to protect a child, never mind herself - or him. Wouldn’t it be easier to just live a better life, a life where people wouldn’t be threatening her baby? A quiet life, a normal life, not being involved with a tyrannical despot aiming to rule the world?_

Xxxx

He could sense her inner torment building to a peak, but it still came as a surprise when she cried out: “I hate you!” 

Small fists were clenched as she stood before him, and somehow it made him disappointed, like she should have felt _differently_ about him by now. 

“I know,” he snapped, “I know what you are trying to do. Don’t even bother. I’m doing this for you!” 

That made her fall silent. Him too. _It was true. He wouldn’t need such extensive protection, but she… No matter how strong a witch she was, people would think her a much easier target than himself, and that by itself made an attack on her all the more likely. Soon, she would become more vulnerable too, with the birth and taking care of an infant. He had to keep her safe, and his son: Protect his witch, and his unborn heir._

Swallowing, he looked away from her, Levitating the unconscious body of the sacrificial witch to the center of the room. 

It seemed like the fight had gone out of his own little witch with that one outburst, and she stood, shoulders slumping, beside him. In her mind, he could see that she reluctantly admitted that this was the rational thing to do, though she didn’t like it by far. Almost grinning to himself, he noted that she still had much too tender sensibilities. _Good thing then, that he had no such qualms._

A sliver of moonlight caught the long blond hair of his first victim for the night. 

Then the girl gasped: “It’s Narcissa Malfoy!” 

“Yes,” he said, feeling satisfied. “Narcissa is no longer loyal to me, though Lucius still is. Thus, she’s useless. Besides, Lucius might need a new wife to produce a new heir. The two of them haven’t been … compatible … or lucky, in that respect. ” 

The little witch sent him a sidelong glance, and he could hear her thoughts easily: _No wonder she has abandoned your cause, as you killed her son._

Voldemort smiled wryly at her: “I know. She doesn’t like you much either, you know.” 

The girl pursed her lips, but stayed quiet. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

She sighed, looking up at him with sad, large eyes. “Never,” she said, “but yes.” 

He pulled her into him, her back against his chest, and took a short moment to clear his head for the ritual. The familiar scent of her was soothing, and he fixed her - and the bond to his son - clearly in his mind. 

Taking a deep breath, he spoke the first part of the incantation, swinging his wand, his old, trusty yew wand, in a wide arch: “ _Servo Hereditas Domus, Contego e Defendo, Parere Dominus e Domina._ ” 

Releasing his magic, he felt the little witch sigh in his arms, her body melting against his, her own magic rising to caress his, to strengthen him. 

A blue, shimmering light emerged in front of them, reaching from roof to ceiling, turning slowly on its axis. 

“ _Tueor_!” he commanded, and a gaping maw opened, expanding, the light on the edges defining a murkier darkness on the inside than the natural dim light in the rest of the room. 

As he Levitated Narcissa to the opening, the little witch shivered in his arms, and she - _well-read little thing she was_ \- knew very well what would happen. Still, she didn’t try to stop him, and he felt proud of her. _She had come a long way from the little goody-two-shoes prude she had been in the beginning, bleeding heart notwithstanding._

Lightning flickered around the edges of the maw, and he felt his magic thrumming like a strong, steady pulse, pouring outwards, holding the portal open. 

With a push from his power, Narcissa Malfoy, still unconscious, slid into the maw, making the darkness within momentarily turn a violent shade of red. 

The house shuddered, like it was in agony, and outside, a wind rose, sweeping over the property, marking the boundaries. Inside the portal, darkness and red blood slowly started swirling, like a great maelstroem of power. 

From his pocket, he fished out his trusted silver knife. _It was an heirloom, of course, something he had nicked during his days at Borgin and Burkes, stumbling over Salazar’s own silver knife when visiting a customer in France._

Turning the little witch around, he looked into her deep brown eyes. “You know what’s next.” 

His voice was hoarse, raw, because this - _this would be difficult for them both. To trust each other with this. But there was no other way._

Swallowing, she nodded. “I know. I will do my part - all of it,” she said faintly. 

Grasping the knife from his hand, she pulled his sleeve up, still looking into his eyes. 

The blade whisked over his pale skin, like a deadly caress, before she pressed the edge to his wrist. 

The cut was stinging, but she withdrew the blade quickly, letting him step forward to the portal. 

Blood welled up from the cut, and as he neared the portal, droplets floated up from his wound, being dragged into the maelstrom, like this was a dark hole in the universe, ready to swallow everything. 

“ _Sacrificum dominum_ ,” he chanted, feeling some of his power leak away, feeding the portal, and the house shuddered again, the maw gaping greedily for more. 

He waited for ten agonizing seconds, feeling power and lifeblood drain from him, the inside of the portal receiving his magic, turning darker as if it was spattered with black droplets, before he took a shuddering step back. 

The little witch looked at him, eyes big and liquid, and then she slowly gave him the knife. 

“You can trust me in this,” he murmured, pulling away her sleeve to reveal the soft, tanned skin on her forearm, and the beautiful, strangely glittering Mark he had given her. 

She nodded, stepping closer to him. He made a precise cut, slicing her skin neatly, and she hissed. 

Together with him, she chanted: “ _Sacrificum domina,_ ” and the maw swallowed her blood, drinking it up, making the red swirls more prominent, and little lights flashed as her magic fuelled the portal in a steady stream of power. When the ten seconds was up, he pressed his wrist to hers, smearing their lifeblood together, before offering their arms to the maw, holding his other arm firmly around her trembling shoulder: ” _Sempiterno,"_ he chanted, and she repeated it: “ _Sempiterno.”_

 _It was an offering of forever, their blood mingled, a new house, a new family rising, creating an entity out of their property to be an everlasting protector of them and their heirs._

A tendril of darkness slithered towards them, wiping - _licking -_ the blood off their arms, cleaning them, closing the wounds, leaving smooth skin, except for a thin, silver line like a writhing snake across their wrists. 

Sighing, he shifted against her, readying himself for the next step. 

Turning to him, she parted her robe, revealing her naked body underneath, the visible swell of her stomach making him feel oddly proud. Letting his hands caress her breasts, she let her head fall back, moaning, pressing her chest against his palms, nipples hardening against his touch. 

His cock stirred, twitching, before it hardened, rising to action, and he groaned, letting one hand trail down to her sex, sliding through her moist folds. 

The small sigh leaving her, her voice almost inaudible: “Oh, Voldemort…” made his blood pound in his ears, his cock now throbbing, fully hard. _She wanted him, wanted this, with him, and …_

Groaning, he muttered “Hermione,” rubbing the slickness through her sex, making her grind her hips against his fingers. 

When he hoisted her up, she slung her legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and he poised himself, shifting his hips so that his cock pointed right at her core, plunging into that silky softness, encasing him tightly, pressing against his sensitive head, sliding along his length. 

In her ear, he growled: “You’re mine, now, mine, little witch!” 

“Yes,” she panted, hands holding onto his shoulders, helping him, lowering herself on him, rising up again in smooth motions, sinking down again: “I am, and you’re mine too, mine, my wizard!” 

“Yes,” he grunted, “I am.” 

The wind swirling outside on the property howled, and he could only hear their harsh breathing, bodies slapping against each other, as he pumped into her, her slick sex clenching so deliciously around his throbbing cock. 

For a moment, they stared at each other, his hips continuously pumping into her, the revelation from the spell seemingly mind-blowing - _they belonged to each other -_ and then his magic entwined with hers - _merged -_ and blinding bliss descended, blotting out all sounds, all sight, only the sensation of his orgasm and her ecstasy was left, the wild ride of rapture encompassing all that he was, as his cock shuddered, jerked inside her, filling her with his seed, emptying himself into her like he was pouring his entire being into her womb.

“Oh Voldemort,” she whispered numbly against his shoulder, “this…” 

But there was no need for her to say anything more. He had felt it too, the connection of their magic, the bonding, their bodies reaching euphoria as he melted into her core. 

The almost drugged, drowsy, satisfied expression on her face told him, she had been just as blown away as him. 

Slowly, he let her slide down his body, turning her to present her to the now pulsing maw, and another tendril of swirling darkness reached out between her legs, cleaning her sex, lapping up her fluids and his seed, making her squirm and giggle. 

“Does it feel good?” he asked, feeling a lick of jealousy burn through him. _No one should make her feel aroused but him, not even a creation of his own magic._

“No,” she giggled, “it tickles, though.” 

He nodded curtly, still not comfortable with this … groping, but as the tendrils withdrew, he Levitated the last victim, the sacrifice who’d conclude their offering to the house. 

As he shoved the last victim into the maw, an unlucky wizard he had pulled out of Azkaban, someone named Stan Shunpike who had been the victim of a failed Imperius, the portal came to life, fiery sparks emerging, and he swung his wand in a wide arch, crying out “ _Pario Anima Sensitiva, Protego Nobis, Nostrum Sacrificio!_ ” 

His power swelled, shooting out, crashing into the portal, making it light up in a blinding flash, and then the house groaned, rattling hard, before the light went out, and all was dark and still. 

But in his arms, he had a warm little witch, the bond to his son all alight, the baby obviously curious at the display of higher magic, and in the back of his mind, a new awareness nestled. _The house was awake. It was here, ready to protect his new family alongside him._

His voice hoarse, like he had been shouting for days, he rasped out to the house: “I name you Slytherin’s Seat.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I'm going to sit down and learn Latin. Obviously, that wasn't happening as I wrote this. Google Translate ftw.


	25. Underlined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were almost at the top of the hill when he stopped, his neck prickling, telling him they were watched. Something was wrong. 
> 
> “Get behind me,” he said curtly, but the little witch didn’t take orders. She stood still, peered curiously at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upped the chapter count again to avoid having a monster-length chapter. Really, this story is actually finished. Now it will be smooth sailing and minor editing.

Cocking his head, the Headmaster asked: “Has he said anything about your status in the ranks after all this?” 

“No, not really,” she mused, leaning back in her chair, resting her hands on the swell of her belly, feeling her baby tumble and kick on the inside. “As you know, he dresses me up, puts me in jewels, presents me for all to see on such occasions, but he hasn’t really said anything. Apart from making me participate in the House warding, I guess the only tangible thing is my Mark.” 

She eyed the table hungrily, the cream tea looking oh so delicious, and she knew the strawberries were freshly picked from the best of Hogwarts own produce. Severeus had Hogwarts’ finest dragon bone china out, painted with the school’s sigil, and the fragrant tea was steaming from the teapot. The tiered stand was filled with warm scones, and the red strawberries and the white clotted cream looked irresistible. Her mouth watered, and for a moment, she seriously considered if the pregnancy hunger finally would make her start drooling over food for real. 

“The House warding, well, I should say, that is a sign in and of itself, that you will fulfill a special role, carrying his heir and all,” Severus mused. Then he asked: “I’m still curious about your Mark. Do you remember anything of the incantation from your Marking? Was it more than a single word?” 

“The first part of the spell was completely unknown to me, but he did end it with ‘ _Morsmordre domina_ ’. I was also named ‘domina’ in the House warding ceremony.” 

Deliberately, she didn’t meet Snape’s eyes, knowing that he probably knew what such rituals entailed. _Wild, magical sex, leaving her wet, panting and breathless. And death - Narcissa Malfoy and some unknown wizard was no longer alive, because of the ritual she had participated in, all too eagerly. Swallowing, she shot down those twinges of guilt. She had no choice, and it would benefit her son. Voldemort decided the ritual, and he did the murders. Still, the guilt didn’t go away._

Severus Snape stared at her, incredulous, before he laughed. The sound was jarring, shockingly loud, rousing several of the slumbering portraits, but he just kept on laughing. 

“What’s so funny?” Hermione demanded. “Tell me, I’m getting worried here!” 

The Headmaster hid his face in his palm, shoulders shaking in laughter, before he slowly calmed down. 

“Oh sweet Merlin,” Severus finally muttered, pinching the bridge of his too-large nose, “he as good as named you his wife, and didn’t even tell you? That’s just… like him.” 

“His wife?” she shrieked, panic rising, “I agreed to no such thing!” The baby’s movement became more violent, as if it sensed her distress. 

“You agreed to his Mark, didn’t you? And to be in his House ritual?” he pointed out. Pensively, he added: “I would think it isn’t a full wedding Vow, but it does state his intentions. At the very least, he named you his Lady, thus placing you over his Death Eaters.” 

“No, no,” she muttered, pressing her palm against her brow, “no, no, no. This can’t be.” 

“Oh yes,” Snape said briskly, “and it proves what I’ve been trying to tell you. You can influence him.” 

“He tricked me,” she said bitterly, “I didn’t agree to any … marriage, or whatever this is.” 

Snape shrugged. “That’s what he does, that’s how he works. I think you should know that by now.” 

“Oh God,” she whispered, resorting to Muggle expressions, wringing her hands in anguish, “maybe I should have let him kill the Order, not taking that damned Mark. Married to him?!” 

“I told you so,” Snape said callously. “Leaving the Order to their own might have been easier on you. Though… I wouldn’t have wanted Minerva dead,” he added, looking carefully at her. 

“I was stupid, stupid, stupid!” she shouted, clenching her fists in anger, feeling something red-hot boiling inside her. _She hadn’t thought the ritual would be a formal binding, except for creating the awareness that would protect their family. She had thought it was all about the sentient house, not a formal binding for the rest of her life. But he had known, hadn’t he? The bastard! She was tied to him in more ways than she had ever imagined possible._

Forcing herself to calm down - _think about the baby, Hermione -_ she muttered sullenly: “I was partly relieved that he asked me for something only pertaining to me, not others, like helping him kill Harry. Instead, I’m even more trapped than before.” 

“But you aren’t surprised,” Snape said shrewdly, watching her. 

“No,” she mumbled, “I’m not. I should have seen this coming.” She grabbed a scone, munching vehemently, being too upset to savour the result of the House-elves’ efforts. 

For a while, they drank their tea in silence, before Snape eventually said: “Look, maybe you did the right thing with the Order. The truth is…” he paused, like he was gathering courage, “... Harry must die. Dumbledore told me, he is a Horcrux. That means, he would have to die, not only to fulfill the prophecy, but also for someone else to do …” he stopped, looking meaningfully at her. 

Shocked, she whispered: “Harry has to die?”

“Yes,” he said heavily, “and I promised myself and Dumbledore, I’d protect Lily’s son, no matter what happened.” They both turned their heads, seeing the empty frame of Dumbledore’s portrait. 

“He’s almost never here,” Severus remarked bitterly. “He prefers to lurk around in the Ministry, and he’s been spending much of the year in McGonagall’s quarters. He only stops by to remind me of my duty to inform Harry about his imminent death.” 

“Dumbledore knew this, all along?” she muttered, feeling a simmering anger at the old Headmaster. “He let Harry go through all this, knowing that he would have to lay down his life?” 

“Yes,” Severus said grimly. “He did. I made a promise over Lily’s dead body that I would keep her son safe. Instead, Dumbledore made me complicit in planning his death.” 

“If there only was a way to keep him alive, or resurrect him after,” she whispered. 

Severus harrumphed. “Mights as well wish for the Resurrection Stone, or a miracle.” 

_The Stone… If the Wand and the Cloak were real, the Stone should also exist._

Hermione furrowed her brow. _Where could the damned Stone be? Had Dumbledore known?_ He had given her the ‘ _the Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ ’ and knowing that Harry’s cloak had been the Cloak, the old Headmaster was probably aware of the Stone’s whereabouts too. _But… was she the only one who had been given a clue?_ Ron had gotten Dumbledore’s Put-Outer, and Harry - Harry had received a Golden Snitch with a curious inscription: “I open at the close.” _Curious, indeed._

“Well,” Severus sighed. “Maybe it’s time to change objectives. Not to defeat him, but to change his policies,” he said heavily. “Maybe if we work together, we can influence him. Try to … nudge … him in a better direction, so he doesn’t set the world aflame, maybe even … solving the Potter problem.” 

The last words came out as a whisper, and Hermione nodded slowly. _She was no longer surprised that Severus was on Harry’s side, though she also knew he wasn’t fully committed to everything the Order did - or rather, everyone_ **_in_ ** _the Order._

Though … Harry would always be a threat to her family. He wouldn’t be satisfied before Voldemort was taken down, and maybe her son with him. If not by Harry, it was more than likely that she and her baby would be hunted if Voldemort fell. _Her son hunted, because of his parentage. Herself, for her association with Voldemort, now a firmly established fact in the wizarding world._

With a sinking feeling, she knew that to be true, and she couldn’t _not_ protect her family. _She had to keep her baby safe, to save the Slytherin line._ Then, there was her research to consider too. _Maybe they wouldn’t have to kill Harry, just…_

“Yes,” she said slowly, mind spinning. “Maybe we could. And save Harry in the process.” 

Rising from her chair, she reached out her arm, clasping the Headmaster’s warm hand, shaking his hand in an unspoken promise. 

Xxxx

Antonin looked unusually closed off, eyes downcast, but he was scratching his scruffy beard as usual. Augustus looked prim and proper like always, face shaved except for his thin moustache and his hair slicked back, but he wouldn’t meet his Lord’s eyes, instead staring with feigned interest at the Malfoy family portraits adorning the walls of the drawing room. Narcissa sneered down at them, her portrait awakening in the moment of her death. 

Voldemort sighed contentedly, rolling the stem of his glass of Port between his fingers. The smell was delicious, wafting up to the slitted nostrils on his face, and he took in that rich, dusty scent, like sweet raisins, deep resin, a faint whiff of dark chocolate, walnuts and wood. _It was an excellent vintage._

He nodded to Lucius, who was busy leafing through the updated ' _Pure-blood Directory'. However useless the man was, he did have a very good wine cellar._

With a small smirk, he watched his followers. _It was curious. Antonin and Augustus were still sulking because of Narcissa’s demise. Lucius, however, had been inconsolable for two days before he had started negotiations with the Selwyn’s for Juliet Selwyn’s hand. The girl was twenty, and Lucius was impatient. Now, the man was counting their shared relatives two hundreds years back in time to find out if a match would be inadvisable. Never mind, the children they would beget would probably be just as inbred as Draco had been._

Bella, however, had merely shrugged off her sister’s death. According to her, Narcissa had been dead in her eyes from the moment she found out her sister wasn’t faithful to their Lord anymore. 

Now, Bella was standing beneath her sister’s portrait, hips leaning against the ornate side table at her back, reporting the most interesting intel. Turning his attention back to her, he listened to his lieutenant relating an amusing story of the Order’s predictable folly. _What people did to get themselves killed,_ he mused, absently petting Nagini. Beside him, she reared her head, listening in on the conversation. 

“McGonagall’s visitors consist of several Order members,” Bella said, her hands at her hips with a self-satisfied smirk. “We’ve spotted all of the younger Weasleys, the werewolf Lupin and his Auror wife, as well as a few others. The crowning glory is that she was visited by Potter. The guards easily recognized his magical signature, though he was Disillusioned.” 

“And the guards followed orders?” he asked, smiling benevolently at Bella. 

She preened under his attention, and replied: “Yes, they pretended to not notice anything. To be frank, I can’t understand how Potter thought he would get away with it. Do the Order really think that our people can’t recognize magical signatures? So many of Potter’s former school mates are in our ranks, and even the dullest of them know how to do that. Well, nevermind. The eavesdropping confirmed it all: They are planning an attack on you, my Lord, and your… witch.” Her expression soured only _slightly_ as she referred to Hermione, and Voldemort felt his lips twitch. _His little lady had certainly taught Bella a lesson._

Nagini hissed softly by his side, silently laughing too. 

Voldemort nodded lazily, fingers curling around his glass, feeling the smooth, yet sharp edges of the cut crystal. Closing his eyes, taking a sip of the lovely Port, he savoured the taste for a moment. 

“You did well, Bella,” he said, seeing the woman’s eyes dilate as he deliberately fed her praise kink. “So well, my lieutenant.” 

Bella leaned back, fingers clutching the side table at her back, supporting her weight on her arms, her eyes half-lidded and heavy. 

“Bad Lord,” Nagini hissed, looking amused. “Such a bad, bad Master, feeding the silly fantasies of your servant.” In return, he petted her scaly head, sharing her silent gleefulness. _What he could achieve, with merely a few words... People were stupid, even strong witches like Bella, letting their strings be pulled, just like that._

Augustus ventured: “Thicknesse has already signed and sealed the order. If they step out of line, the next thing will be a Kiss.” 

“Lovely,” Voldemort muttered, seeing how Bella struggled to collect herself, her chest heaving, and her breasts almost spilling out of her thoroughly indecent clothing. _Before, that might have been an interesting sight, but now… not so. He much preferred his little lady._

“We’re ready,” he concluded. “Let the attack come, and we will confirm McGonagall’s treachery, once and for all.” 

Xxxx

The furniture had arrived, and all their things had been moved to their new home. Hermione chose _not_ to think about the fact that seven House-elves now lived in the cellar, but she vowed she’d treat them better and with the respect they deserved. 

Voldemort was just about to arrive too, and she walked slowly through the house, fingers trailing over soft fabrics, gleaming wood and polished metal. _It was beautiful. Everything was a mix of old antiques as well as newly made, several items custom made._

As soon as she had entered the property, she had felt the warm welcome of the house, telling her that all was well - _all would be well, she was home. Safe, on her family estate. Her family’s estate._

The most important things, though, were all the books in the library. Eyes roving over the shelves, she felt her heart soar at the thought of reading all those books, scrolls and tomes, all that knowledge amassed in one place, each and every book Voldemort had collected through his long life, whether they were stolen, bought or gifted to him, but the collection was ready for her to dig into. 

Breathing in the leather and the parchment, the scent of newly mowed grass drifting in through the opened window, she knew - this was as close to scenting her Amortentia she’d ever be, she thought with a small smile. _She was only lacking something spicy, and a little wood smoke…_

On cue, the exact scent she was aiming to describe to her mind wafted in from the open window, and she almost stumbled over a chair, feeling strangely elated and surprised at the same time. 

For a moment she felt dizzy, holding on to that chair to steady herself. Then the great front doors opened, and the master of the house arrived. 

Shaken, she stood still, watching him enter the library. Upon seeing her, he gave her a crooked smile. “I thought I would find you in here.” 

“Yes,” she said, her heart hammering in her chest. _It couldn’t be. It couldn’t! All those rituals that had bound her to him had confused her senses. Yes, that was it. It truly_ **_could_ ** _not be so._

“Found anything of interest?” he asked, peering at the book she held. “Ah, reading up on Sleeping Draughts, are you? Always useful.” 

She nodded, clutching the book to her chest, trying to still her thoughts. _He couldn’t pick this out of her head, he just couldn’t…_

Her voice faint, she said: “We should go down into the village.” 

“Why would we ever do that?” he said, hands in the pockets of his robe, looking at the library with satisfaction as he rocked on his feet. 

“They’ve seen the work on the house, and will realize someone has moved in. We should show ourselves, and then they won’t be as curious. Settle a ' _Notice-Me-Not'_ \- Charm on the house and us, making them disinterested.” 

“I can do that from up here,” he said, cocking his head. “No need to go down to the Muggles.” 

“If they know what we look like, it would strengthen the Charm. They are bound to be very curious, and this would satisfy their curiosity, making it more likely for the Charm to settle successfully for a long time,” she argued. “I’ve read several cases where too little information can make the Charm deteriorate, even when Muggles are involved. There was a recent case in Surrey, and then another in Cornwall two years ago, and the only similarities were too little ...”

Voldemort shrugged. “You’re right, it would ease them into the effects of the Charm, but do you really think it’s a good idea for me to show myself?” 

A small grin was playing on his lips, and she felt her cheeks heat. 

Murmuring, she said: “You could always Glamour yourself.” 

He barked a laugh. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

Cheeks turning beet red, she snapped: “That’s not the point, and you know it!” 

But Voldemort only grinned widely, before sweeping his wand over himself. The Glamour fell over him, turning him into the handsome man he had once been, all those years ago. 

“Happy?” he said, cocking a dark, arrogant eyebrow, black eyes glinting at her with amusement. 

Mutely, she nodded. 

Xxxx

She looked so good, standing there in his library, a beautiful young witch wearing silks, her belly round with his child, and with a blush to her cheeks. 

Moving closer, he could see her biting her lip. Curiously, her eyes were taking in his features like she couldn’t get enough. _Well, he knew he looked good, but she seemed to be very much affected by his old looks. Very much._

His voice was curiously thick, when he said: “So, let’s go to play Lord and Lady of the manor then, before we hex our subjects into oblivion.” 

_The small smile on her face shouldn’t have made him this happy._

Xxxx

The trip to the village had been fun, she had to admit that. _Somewhere, on a level she didn’t want to examine closer, she had enjoyed playing the Lady to the handsome Lord Riddle. Like she’d ever want to play his wife, or admit that she wanted to be on his arm. Or maybe … she actually did._

The villagers were so pleased to meet them, staring curiously at their new Lord and Lady come to visit on this Sunday morning, and if she read their faces right, they were wondering about their age difference. After all, the handsome Tom Riddle by her side looked to be in his late thirties, while she looked - _well_ \- young. 

He had pretended to be the lost grandson of Tom Riddle, introducing her glibly as his wife. The villagers had nodded, some telling them stories of the Riddles, and only she saw the dark glittering of his eyes as they were presented the story of the gruesome Riddle murder mysteries. 

That glittering mirth, however, had been nothing, because when he had nudged _her_ into casting the ' _Notice-me-not_ ', the full grin in his eyes had been the very epitome of cruel amusement. 

She had cast the charm, surveying the people, nodding in satisfaction that she had reached everyone present, the Charm settling in, making the crowd drift away, everyone realizing they had more pressing business elsewhere. 

The much too handsome man at her side had squeezed her hand, and afterwards, they had strolled back to the house on the hill. The villagers were now working in their gardens, some having returned to their shopping, chores or leisure, though they would all feel a little faint with headaches from the rough spell treating their brain to something akin to a light, situational dementia. 

Xxxx

They were almost at the top of the hill when he stopped, his neck prickling, telling him they were watched. _Something was wrong._

“Get behind me,” he said curtly, but the little witch didn’t take orders. She stood still, peered curiously at him. “I can’t see anything wrong.” 

“It’s because they are Disillusioned,” he replied, taking her arm, trying to force her to step behind him, while simultaneously trying to sense how many there were out there. _The Order. That was, the remaining poor sods in the Order._ Voldemort almost grinned, knowing that McGonagall and her cohorts had now just forfeited their life with this insurrection. _But the Order had come in force._

“They?” she asked, struggling against his grip.

Whispering, he said: “They. There are at least twelve attackers in front of us. They are confused, because they don’t recognize me, only you. Now, get behind me, just do it!” 

“I can defend myself!” she said shrilly, nervously. 

Her power was spiking, flaring out, and he knew, she was right. _But… which side was she really on, when push came to shove? The Order’s side, or his?_

Quietly, he said: “Are you with me, whoever they are?” _Silently, he prepared to Stun her if her reply wasn’t to his liking._

Somewhat reluctantly, her answer came. “Yes, I’m with you.” 

“Then you better get ready,” he hissed, feeling a pleasurable spike of satisfaction. “Here they come.” 

Xxxx

She gasped, seeing the sudden appearance of Remus Lupin, Bill, Charlie, Fred and George Weasley, Tonks, Hestia Jones, Elphias Doge, as well as a few Order members she didn’t recognize, amongst them a tall, old man who reminded her curiously of Dumbledore. 

Her heart sinking, she knew this was it. _She was to fight the Order on Voldemort’s side. To fight on her lover's side, the father of her child, the man who smelled like her Amortentia scent. If there had ever been an infinitesimal chance of coming back to the Order, that door would firmly close right now. Because she wouldn’t allow them to hurt neither him nor her._

The Shield he had taught her winked in existence around them both, and she looked gratefully at her lover, still disguised by his Glamour. 

The handsome Tom Riddle by her side furrowed his straight, black eyebrows, looking stern and oddly similar to the Voldemort she knew, nose or no nose. 

“Take no prisoners,” he said quietly, “they are too many.” 

She gulped, but … he was right. _They would have to knock them out or kill, because they couldn’t risk anyone rejoining the fight. Twelve witches and wizards against two was a lot, even when one of the two was Lord Voldemort._

Hermione squared her shoulders. _She was no weakling either, and she’d do anything to protect her child. And her wizard. Anything._

Planting her feet, her wand in her hand, she let that awful rage build again - _how dared they to threaten her baby -_ letting it fill her, consume her, and out of her wand, her body stiffening to support her magic, like her arm was a launching ramp for a spaceship about to take off, she sent a vicious curse hurtling toward one of the Order members: “ _Bombarda Maxima_!”

Two of them, a woman she didn’t know and Fred Weasley - _her heart stuttering a little at that_ \- were thrown backwards several metres, the woman’s neck snapping with a sickening crunch as she hit the low stone wall surrounding the road. Fred lay still on his back, completely still, and a pool of red expanded rapidly from from the back of his head. 

“Oh,” she whispered, hands flying to her mouth, but Voldemort barely blinked, deflecting an expanding Blasting curse sent their way, making it fly heavenward like a great jet of fiery orange flame. 

“Good one,” he snapped, twirling his wand before bringing it down with great force, and a large beam of red shot out of his wand, hitting Tonks in the stomach. A pitiful wail escaped her, before her eyes bulged and she fell with a thud.

“Tonks, love!” Remus Lupin shouted desperately, kneeling by his wife’s body, taking Voldemort’s next curse straight in his head. His body dissolved into mist, making the rest of the Order gasp. 

“You bastard!” Bill and Charlie yelled as one, both of them casting a dual Confringo. 

Hermione reacted without blinking, throwing all she had into reinforcing Voldemort’s Shield around them, but still, they both staggered as the curse impacted, and then again, as a massive Reductor curse almost cracked their Shield. 

The attackers moved to each side, as if they silently had decided that two of them would go after Hermione, while the remaining six would take Voldemort. 

Turning slightly, she stood back to back with Voldemort, the heat from his body supporting her, strengthening her, wand bristling, as she saw George and Elphias Doge move against her. 

“How could you!” George screamed, his eyes blazing. “Fred… You traitorous _bitch_!” 

Grimly, she sent a Reductor at him, sweeping him from his feet, and as he scrambled up, she deflected a Leg-Locker curse from Elphias Doge, feeling the broad back of Voldemort support her as she almost reeled against the impact from Elphias’ next curse - _something red, something unknown, but definitely something dangerous_. 

The two wizards in tandem shot another Blasting Curse at her, and she held on to her Shield for dear life, barely aware of the explosions and lightning coming from Voldemort’s side, as the Shield cracked, letting a thin stream of the curse in. As she jumped away, it streaked close by her ear, narrowly missing Voldemort’s shoulder. 

Breathing harshly, knowing that she had been millimeters from her death - _Voldemort’s death too, and the death of her child -_ she gripped her wand. 

Grimly, she let up the reins of her raging emotions, setting her magic free, like a roaring beast ready to devour her enemies. 

“ _Avada Kedavra_!” she shrieked, lunging forward, wand pointing straight forward, and the green jet burst out, like a thick beam of dazzling light, hitting George squarely in the chest, going straight through him and hitting Elphias too. 

They fell, both bodies making a soft thud as they hit the ground, but she had already turned, eyes blazing, seeing Voldemort send a triumphant last Killing Curse at the old man resembling Dumbledore. 

The silence was ringing in her ears, after all the blasts and explosions, and she could only hear her own, harsh breaths. But Voldemort turned towards her, black, still Glamoured eyes burning at her, grabbing her shoulders, pulling her in, kissing her, almost devouring her - and she kissed him greedily in return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, I killed the Order? Yes, I killed almost the entire Order! That's a first, for a fic of mine... 
> 
> And poor Hermione, realizing that she just might have true feelings for her big bad... *grins* 
> 
> Stay safe!


	26. Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In a few moments,” he said softly, not looking at her, “Minister Thicknesse is going to announce that he signs over the rulership to me, due to his health problems.” 
> 
> She snorted. “Everyone in this room knows that’s merely a formality,” she pointed out. 
> 
> “So it is,” he said pensively. Looking down at her, he continued: “But formalities are important, at times."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're hurtling towards the end, and so you get two chapters in one week. 
> 
> Thanks for asking about Hermione confronting her feelings for Voldemort with Severus. I hadn’t planned to write that, but I realized, that would be fun. It might not be entirely what you imagined, but ... you'll see. ;-) 
> 
> The Portuguese ambassadeur is a tiny shout-out to the reader commenting in Portuguese. I don’t know if you’re from Portugal or Brazil, but this is the first time I’ve had a lasting ‘conversation’ using google translate.

She bit her lip, feeling her eyes brim with tears. 

“They broke their promise,” Voldemort said, looking intently at her. 

Now, she was submerged to her shoulders in the giant tub, Voldemort having insisted on them bathing to get rid of the dust and sweat after the fight and their frenzied coupling, and the Glamour had vanished. Somehow, even though he looked so good as his old self, she didn’t mind. _He was her wizard, monstrous as he was._

“I know,” she whispered, “I know.” _This sacrifice, her accepting his Mark, would be rendered pointless too, like the Order was bent upon ignoring her sacrifices, determined to make her work useless, meaningless._ Her taking the Mark was now a moot point, because McGonagall, the Weasleys and Shacklebolt would be as good as dead by nightfall. Though, maybe she could still salvage something out of this mess. 

_Voldemort had Disillusioned the dead bodies on the road, before flying her back to the property just after the fight, taking her up against the wall seconds after slamming the front door behind them. It had been quick, rushed, but still so achingly good, both of them high on adrenaline and magic. His Glamour held through his orgasm, and on a purely academic level, she was quite impressed he managed to keep it up as he came, black brows furrowing, dark eyes locked on her face as he pumped her full. On a more personal level, she felt awkward, ugly, almost unlovable, compared to the much too beautiful man pounding into her. A man who looked like this would probably prefer an equally beautiful woman by his side, not someone like ... herself._

_Before stepping into the bath, he had sent owls with instructions for Augustus Rookwood in the Ministry, ordering him to plan the Dementor’s Kiss, as well as Summoning Bellatrix Lestrange and Severus to clear the scene._

_The surprised and disappointed look in Severus’ eyes, as Voldemort gleefully told them that she had killed four people, from the Order no less, pained her. That unknown woman, Elphias Doge, Fred and George… Hermione knew, the memory of this fight would haunt her._

Leaning her head back on his arm, closing her eyes, the adrenaline from the fight and their frenzied coupling disappearing as the warm water embraced her, she felt her lips quiver. _Why was everything so_ **_damned_ ** _grey all the time? Would there ever be a time when right and wrong was clearly defined again?_

Her baby kicked her hard, making her gasp in surprise, clutching her stomach. Voldemort’s large hand came to rest on hers, and together, they felt the lively movements of the tiny being in her belly. 

“It’s for him too, you know,” he said, “we must keep him safe.” 

“I know,” she repeated. Squaring her shoulders, she looked up into his face, meeting his red gaze. Clearing her throat, she said slowly: “I will support this in public, if you wish. They did break their promise. For my support, I want the remaining Weasleys, that is Ron, Ginny, Fleur and her baby, to be spared. I mean forever, whatever they do.” _Because Ron was still her friend, and she’d be damned if she let Voldemort harm him. Ron would need as much of his family he could have, even though only a remnant would be left. She might have killed the Order, but she would save her friends._

Voldemort cocked his head, and she could feel the light brush of his mind on hers. “The Weasley boy,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “you loved him once. You still love him?” 

Blinking, she at first felt confused, but then it dawned on her: _Voldemort may not be able to discern between her emotions all that well, or the positive, loving ones, at least. He might not understand fully the difference between loving someone as a very dear friend, and the vague, romantic interest she had felt for Ron earlier._

Smiling a little at him, marvelling that this man could be so very intelligent, and yet so utterly stupid, she clarified: “I don’t love him the way you think. I did, once, but it passed.” Seeing the suspicion still on his face, she added, hesitantly: “It was over before I met you. Now, I only want him to be safe. Nothing else.” 

Feeling him root through her thoughts, she waited patiently, bemused, until he withdrew. 

“I see,” he said, looking somewhat self-conscious, likely because he had realized that she was laughing at him on the inside. 

Briskly, like he wanted to forget this minor embarrassment, he sat up in the tub, making the warm water slosh around their bodies. “The Kiss for McGonagall and the rest will be administered by nightfall.” 

“I don’t want to watch,” she said quickly. “You shouldn’t either.” 

“Why shouldn’t I watch?” he asked. 

“Because it would look bad, like you’re vindictive.” 

He barked a short laugh, red eyes glinting with mirth. “I _am_ vindictive.” 

“You shouldn’t be _seen_ as vindictive,” she insisted, sliding her hand across the wet, smooth skin of his stomach. _It felt strangely good, caressing the most evil wizard in Britain, feeling the hard muscles and planes of his abdomen underneath the pale, soft skin, the light touch making her fingertips tingle._ “It’s bad for your image. Let the Wizengamot and the Ministry deal with this, make it seem like you have nothing to do with it.” 

He shrugged, stretching lazily. “One Dementor’s Kiss is much the same as any other. If you’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it twice. I can pass. Augustus has this well in hand.” 

His eyes, though, followed her hand trailing over his stomach, stroking slowly back and forth, and suddenly, she felt his cock nudge her wrist, rapidly swelling. 

“Again?” she asked pointedly, but with a smile. _A fond smile, a small voice whispered in her head._

Voldemort smirked, taking her hand to close around his thick shaft. “Speaking of taking something in hand,” he said huskily, and she couldn’t help chuckling. She still felt so sated, so relaxed from their previous encounter, but she didn’t mind doing this for him.

Slowly, she let her hand glide over him, feeling all the ridges and veins on his cock, her hand barely fitting around his girth. The skin was smooth to the touch, and the red, flushed head was velvety soft when she circled her index finger around the tip, tickling him, before she made a fist, stroking up and down his length. 

“That’s it, girl,” he breathed, “move faster.” His eyes didn’t leave her, desire burning in their depths, making her feel flushed and strangely humbled - _he had been so beautiful once, and could still appear so when he wanted to, and yet, he obviously wanted_ **_her_** _._

Steadily, she began to work his length in her hand, squeezing around the head, loosening the grip as she went down to the base. The rhythmic slapping made the water slosh around them, and soon, he was bucking his hips into her hand. 

As she moved faster, he was gasping, and she could feel his cock growing harder, thicker even, and then he jerked, groaning out loud - “ _Hermione_!” - as thick, white ropes spurted out, covering her hand, making the water momentarily opaque. 

“Merlin,” he muttered. “You make me feel like a young man, girl.” To her surprise, he gathered her into his side, kissing her hair, sighing in satisfaction. Leaning her head into his shoulder, she first waved her soiled hand in the water, trying futilely to rinse off the thick spend, before he chuckled, and she felt his magic brush over her hand, cleansing her. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, sliding her hand up to his chest, continuing to slowly stroke and pet him, feeling an odd sort of contentment. 

_Strangely enough, she got the impression that he was … grateful._

  
  


Xxxx

“The house is … very nice,” Severus said through a lull in the music, his eyes dragging around the ball room of Riddle House. “Miss Granger has done a great deal of work.” 

Voldemort snorted. “She enjoyed it,” he said, “and you wouldn’t believe how many colour coded sheets of parchment tracking progress and estimating the remaining work she gave me during the process.” 

Severus smiled at that, before he said: “I had the dubious pleasure of marking Miss Granger’s schoolwork for a full six years. I can imagine.” 

It was a grand party, the turnout consisting of the mighty, the rich and the powerful in the wizarding world: The Wizengamot, high-level Death Eaters, the Pure-blood aristocracy and wealthy land-owners, Ministry executives, ambassadeurs from other countries, traders and businessmen and Gringotts representatives. Everyone had come to satisfy their curiosity at his housewarming party, as well as making new contacts and allies, some already striking deals in the corners, but mostly, everyone was here to see him. _That felt good, right, just like it should be._

As the orchestra started up again, Voldemort set a small, discrete Bubble of Silence around Severus and himself. 

“Severus,” he said bluntly. “I need you to breed.” 

The man choked on his punch, almost letting the crystal tumbler in his hand go, before he composed himself. 

With a sorrowful look at Voldemort, the man had the audacity to say: “”I’m a recent widower, my Lord, surely it can wait?” 

Voldemort cocked his head. “Really, Severus?” he drawled, making the other man squirm under his gaze. “I know how little you cared for that marriage. However, you are much too powerful to let the Prince line go to waste. You must. Though, in the eyes of the world, it will be better if you wait. You have my permission to wait another year.” 

“Thank you, my Lord,” Severus said gloomily, almost hanging his head. 

Smacking his tongue, Voldemort asked: “Is that such a burden for you, to find and bed a pretty young thing with sufficient power? Even I managed to do that.” 

Sullenly, Severus muttered: “Granger isn’t your everyday witch. She’s different, while I have to wade through a mire of former pupils to find someone who isn’t a complete dunderhead. You know, by choosing a former student, I’ll remember everything. Her Potion grades for every single year of her school years, how she blew up her cauldron in her third year, giving her detention with me in her fifth year, and how I caught her out of bed, snogging a boy in her sixth year and so on. Really, my Lord, I … just can’t do that.” 

Voldemort snorted. “You could always go abroad. A dainty French girl, then, or maybe a little valkyrie from Durmstrang. You will find yourself a wife, Severus, or I’ll find you one. Such power must not be wasted.” 

Xxxx

Smoothing the black silk of her dress, she nodded and smiled to the people approaching her. The house was full of people in their finery, drinking, talking and celebrating, everyone curious to see the Dark Lord’s new home, but Hermione had quickly realized, many of them were just as curious to see her and the interaction between her and Voldemort. _Wanting to know if she was worth influencing, wanting to know if she’d be amenable to persuade the Dark Lord. Wanting to know if it was true, that he treated her with something people believed to be loving respect._

The ballroom was lit by fluttering fairies soaring in the rafters, the wooden floors gleaming with a warm shine, and the silk tapestries on the walls were a light, shimmering green. Voldemort, true to form, had installed a giant portrait of himself at one end of the room, the un-moving likeness staring down at the party with a fixed, red glare. 

The man himself was in the middle of the room, looking every inch like the monstrous king he had set himself up to be, head held high, ornate silk robes with silvery embroidery. _As for herself … Well, if she hadn’t known what she looked like in the Slytherin silver-snake set, the murmured, respectful greetings of “my Lady” would have told her everything she needed to know. The quick glances to her set of jewellery proved that people knew exactly what she was wearing and what it meant._

Seeing Lucius Malfoy, she almost winced, knowing what that unpleasant man had lost to make her house secure for her son. Malfoy, though, had only nodded blithely at her, with a respectful, murmured greeting, before he continued to pursue a pretty girl young enough to be his daughter, crowding her in a corner, making the poor young woman look nervous and uncomfortable as he boxed her in. 

From a distance, she saw Severus talk to Voldemort, and slowly his sallow face became ashen as his master continued talking. Curiously, she wandered closer, seeing Voldemort toast the Headmaster with a satisfied smirk, before he turned around, stalking off to chat with the Portuguese ambassadeur, a brilliant witch who had made a career as a respected Potions researcher before going into diplomacy. _They would talk about the wand wood trade, she knew, because Voldemort wanted to boost the export of quality British elm and hawthorne, as well as importing more of the rare, Portuguese cedar and Pyrenean oak for wandmaking._

Sidling up to Severus, she put a hand on his arm. He jerked a nod in the direction of the great doors to the garden, and together, they walked outside to the pleasantly warm summer night. The fabric of his black robe felt curiously rough to her palm, and with a small jolt, she realized she had become used to Voldemort’s soft, silky robes. 

“What did he say?” she asked, looking up into the stern face of her friend and former teacher. 

The garden was magnificent, and she sent a grateful thought to the Italian gardeners. The grass was emerald green and lush, and the flowers seemed to be in a continual bloom. The fragrance was heady and wonderful from the flower beds filled with magically groomed roses, lilies, peonies and the honeysuckle climbing the walls. The gravel paths were well tended, small stones crunching underneath their feet as the two of them strolled slowly around the mansion, the great windows casting squares of light upon the darkening garden. 

Severus sighed heavily, before dragging one hand across his brow. “He wants me to breed,” he said curtly. “He believes I must pass on my magical strength.” His mouth grimaced, like the thought itself was distasteful to him, before he again looked despondent and miserable. 

“Oh.” 

The man beside her seemed so sad, so bereft, looking the perfect part of a widower. _Only, she knew that wasn’t the case. Severus Snape looked sorrowful because he didn’t want anyone but his dead childhood friend, not because his wife had recently died._

As usual, her thoughts shied away from Perenella’s death. _Another death to put to her name? No, she didn’t want to acknowledge that, no…_

“He gave me a year, though,” Severus said bitterly, “and suggested I go abroad to find a wife. Someone who hasn’t had the misfortune of being my student.” 

Chewing her lip, cocking her head to hear the tune from the orchestra inside, she said slowly: “I suppose, you could find a witch that wanted the same as you. I mean, a marriage of convenience, in which you just … produce … a child. Nothing more.” 

Severus scoffed, looking incredulous. “Would you have an intimate relationship, a lifelong marriage with someone you didn’t care about? Having children with someone you didn’t love?” 

Hermione felt her mouth fall open, and a blush rose in her cheeks. Panicked, her mind screamed: _She couldn’t tell anyone! She could never tell anyone of her great shame! There was no way she’d tell anyone that she had, apparently, against her will, fallen in …_

Hastily, seeing her flushed face, Severus amended: “That was uncalled for, I realize, your situation is…” 

“Yes, well,” she said weakly, fighting her flustered state, trying to appear as normal as possible, like Severus hadn’t struck at right at the heart of her own humiliating emotions. “You could have a merely ...workable … relationship, I mean. It could be good, even if it’s not … true ... love.” Her voice fell to a whisper by the end of the sentence - _because what she felt for Voldemort, was that really…? -_ but Severus didn’t seem to notice. 

“I’ll need to think about it,” he said, sighing. Then his eyes sharpened, and he asked: “How are you holding up? I mean, after the fight.” 

Distracted, she peered through the great doors, as their walk had taken them back to the paved terrace. Though in her head, she didn’t see the throng of people in their finery, instead her mind filled with the memory of dust, blood, crackling spells and angry shouts. A small shiver ran down her back, as she remembered George and Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Elphias Doge and… _All dead, because of her and her lover. Some of them were killed by her. Some of them used to be her friends._

She stopped on the terrace, whispering: “I don’t really feel so very different. Though I suppose I’ve maimed my soul.” 

Severus muttered, his deep voice rumbling in his chest: “How do you feel about the Order?” 

Turning to him, she suddenly felt angry, eyes blazing. “They tried to kill me. That’s the second time they tried to. It was self-defense, I had no choice!” 

Severus smiled bitterly. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how all our choices concerning our Lord are … taken away from us. Everything seems so inevitable, leading down a certain path. Don’t you think?” 

With that, he nodded to her, before taking off in a swirl of black robes, marching inside, through the crowd towards the table of drinks. 

Hermione frowned, before moving slowly inside. The air was filled with perfume and the smell of warm bodies, and she felt slightly nauseous by all the sycophantically smiling faces in the sea of people around her. Lifting her eyes, she saw Voldemort standing in the gallery overlooking the room, watching her. He raised a pale hand, beckoning her, a serious expression on his face. 

Gathering her wide black silk skirt, she weaved through the ball room, smiling and nodding when necessary, taking the sweeping stairs to the gallery slowly, one hand clutching the gleaming oak railing, her body so much heavier than it used to be, before coming to stand beside him. 

“In a few moments,” he said softly, not looking at her, “Minister Thicknesse is going to announce that he signs over the rulership to me, due to his health problems.” 

She snorted. “Everyone in this room knows that’s merely a formality,” she pointed out. 

“So it is,” he said pensively. Looking down at her, he continued: “But formalities are important, at times. When I make my speech, I’m going to pose a question to you. You’re going to say yes.” 

Hermione felt her heart start hammering. _Did this mean…? Surely not, but what else could he be implying?_

“No,” she said, voice weak at first, before it grew stronger: “No.” 

“No?” he said, looking mildly surprised. 

“No,” she continued, “not without a negotiation.” 

That made him grin, and to her surprise, he looked immensely pleased. 

“That’s my witch,” he murmured, voice almost too low for her to hear. 

She furrowed her brow, feeling uncomfortable by the fact that pleasing him felt _good_. Shaking it off, she said: “I have a proposition for you.” Her palms felt sweaty and nervous.

“So, what’s in it for me?” he asked, cocking his head. The mottling on his skin was more pronounced today, like he was secretly agitated. 

Hermione swallowed, trying to ready herself for the argument of her life - _the single most important deal she would ever make_ . _She could save Harry, if she succeeded._

“Harry is a Horcrux,” she told him, staring straight at him. 

To her surprise, Voldemort nodded. “I know,” he said calmly. “It is the only consistent explanation for me having an overly emotional Potter in my mind. He’s a mess, you know. Most of all, I want him to be _quiet_. That boy … surely, it can’t be normal. He has so many raging emotions, it’s sickening.” 

She bit her lip, staring uneasily at him. _This was unexpected, though her plan might still work._

“So, as he’s a Horcurx, there’s no point for you to kill him, rather the opposite,” she soldiered on. 

He grunted. “I wouldn’t say so, nevermind his loud, bratty emotions, because what of the Prophecy? It must be fulfilled, one way or the other.” 

“There’s that,” she conceded, “but I have a solution. Are you familiar with the legend of...?” 

Xxxx

  
  


After her explanation, Voldemort stared at her, feeling something akin to true respect for his little witch. “So it will be,” he murmured, lifting her hand to kiss her, her small hand warm against his lips.

Turning to the crowd, he signalled to Rookwood, who in turn nudged Thicknesse. The man’s eyes were now completely vacant, and he moved robotically. 

Down on the floor, Augustus set a _Sonorous_ on Thicknesse, before the man started to recite his message. _Thicknesse no longer had a will or even a functioning mind, being merely a puppet, and Voldemort knew Augustus was holding the man together by the force of his Imperius._

The crowd listened attentively, but many of them already looked up to the gallery, watching him, long before Thicknesse named his successor.

When the man had boomed out: “I hereby sign all the rights to ruling Britain over to Lord Voldemort!” scratching his signature on the scroll Augustus so conveniently held up to the man, everyone applauded, chanting: “Lord Voldemort, Lord Voldemort, Lord Voldemort!” 

He lit his wand, putting himself in the spotlight, setting his own _Sonorous,_ and a hush fell. _Merlin, he loved this. HIs takeover - his glorious, true takeover had begun._

“My friends,” he said, “thank you so much. It is with tremendous respect and awe that I take on this responsibility, and I thank former Minister Thicknesse for his efforts. I promise to work tirelessly to the best of our society, promoting magic and strengthening our world against all threats, ensuring that the British witches and wizards can live safely in prosperity.” 

As he paused, there were excited exclamations and a thunderous applause, before he continued: “We need to make sure our children continue to get a good education, that our jobs are safe and our economy is sound. But most of all, we need to further new discoveries into the realms of magic. Magic is might, and there is so much more we can do, if we only work together to stretch the boundaries of magic. Our strength sets us apart from those who lack magic, and the wizarding world has lain dormant for too long. It’s time to take our place in the world. Knowledge and power will bring new solutions to the world, creating a world without end for us. We can find new ways to Heal sickness, even death, and make our life easier and happier. I will stand by magic, and I know you will do the same.” 

He paused again, as the throng shouted: “Hear, hear!” 

Satisfied with how his message had been received, he moved on: “However, I cannot do this all alone. I need good advisors, strong minds and our able Department Heads. Most of all, I need my witch, the mother of my heir. Hermione Jean Granger, step forward.” 

The little witch did so, coming to stand beside him, looking oddly nervous. He felt nervous himself, to say such things in public. _Though, it was necessary. This was a show, most of all, and so what, if parts of it were even true?_

Voldemort took her hand, and cleared his throat, his voice strangely rusty: “Will you, Lady of my house, queen of my heart, marry me tonight?” 

There was a gasp of awed surprise from the crowd, his Death Eaters looking the most shocked of them all, everyone, except his Inner Circle, Severus in particular. He merely looked amused, like he had seen this coming a long time ago, while Augustus seemed to just have lost a bet to Antonin, judging by his sour expression and the other man’s triumphant grin. Bella, of course, seemed to be devastated. 

“Tonight?” the little witch whispered by his side, clenching his hand. 

“Now,” he corrected. 

“Yes,” she said loud and clear, staring straight at him. “Yes, I will. Yes, I will marry you.” 

With a flourish, he presented her with a silver ring, matching the Slytherin set. 

“With this ring I take you,” he intoned, invoking the age-old wedding ritual, “to be my wife, to protect you and cherish you, until death and beyond.” 

He put the ring on her finger, sliding it on her, and she looked slightly panicked as the snake curling around her finger twisted and shrunk to fit her ring finger. 

Looking at him, her eyes a strange mix of warmth and desperate tears, she Conjured a golden ring with a green emerald skull, reminiscent of her own Mark. Her voice came surprisingly loud and clear: “With this ring I take you to be my husband, to support you and cherish you, until death and beyond.” 

The magic rushed through him, all his senses feeling magically alight, and he crushed her to him, kissing her greedily, in front of the whole wizarding world. Her mouth and tongue met his lips just as eagerly.

When he growled “Mine!” into her mouth, she snarled back: “Mine too! Forever, you bastard!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they finally did it, huh? Still, the story isn’t finished. So what’s next? Oh, there’s a wedding night, and there’s still someone named Harry Potter… ;-)


	27. Underworld

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gasping, she almost reeled after coming out of the impossible squeeze of Apparition, but the two men at her side steadied her, holding her upright. 
> 
> Two shocked pairs of eyes met hers, belonging to the two other wizards in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *takes a deep breath, plunges right in*

The rest of the feast was a blur: People congratulating them, everyone smiling og grinning, lots of happy wishes and a din of conversations, laughter and exclamations. 

It wasn’t until afterwards, when the great doors closed behind the last of their guests and Voldemort turned to her, that a deep, uncomfortable silence fell. 

Hermione didn’t quite know what to do, standing there quietly in the resplendent entrance hall, feeling as if she’d drown in the depths of those red eyes. 

_Married. To Voldemort. Not only carrying his heir. Not only being Marked by him, not only the Lady of his house. But truly married._

Swallowing, she felt tears fill her eyes, and an unfamiliar feeling of _belonging_ and _peace_ threatened to overwhelm her. _And yet, it was so very wrong._

“It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked, voice a little rusty, eyes searching her face until he found what he was looking for. 

Slowly, he stepped towards her, like she was a shy animal, easy to scare, and she felt her breath come in rapid, heavy bursts, trying to hold back sobs. _She had turned, truly, if she felt_ **_he_ ** _was the one she belonged with. She had failed her mission, but maybe she had won something else. It’s not so bad to change one’s mind,_ a small voice whispered in the recesses of her heart _, it’s not so bad to love someone. You can influence him too, making the world better. And, you’ve secured a deal to save Harry. You have won, Hermione, you can have your cake and eat it too._

Being so preoccupied with her inner musings, she hadn’t noticed him coming to stand right in front of her. 

“Hermione,” he said, voice curiously gentle, “you are safe. I will not harm you, and I can protect you and our son from anything and anyone.” 

“I know,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to his face again. Now, those tears that had threatened to fall really did spill over, as she repeated: “I know.” 

The kiss, when it came this time, was tender and soft. 

Xxxx

The kiss had started out as gentle, but in the end, it was anything but. 

_He couldn’t wait._ Grabbing her, he hoisted her up to clutch her to his chest, carrying his bride upstairs, taking the stairs two steps at the time. Crashing open the door to their bedroom, he stumbled in, before depositing her to the bed. Clothes disappeared, almost without the realization that he had cast the spell to Vanish their clothing, and then he was on top of her, skin against skin, holding himself up as not to put weight on her protruding stomach. 

Lips moving, tongues thrusting, and one handful of a deliciously hard nipple made him groan, and she was squirming underneath him, trying to get him inside. He moved down her body, wanting to taste those perky nipples, rolling his tongue around one, making her arch her back, whimpering. 

“Please, I’m ready, just take me, I need you!” she almost mewled, and he chuckled. 

“Are you wet for me, _wife_?” he asked, playfully moving one hand down over the swell of her stomach, stopping just above her mound. 

“Yes, yes,” she panted impatiently, squirming against him, trying to get his hand to where she wanted it. 

“Let me have a look, my sweet,” he said, the amusement of making her wait almost breaking through in his voice. 

“No please, just…” she moaned but he settled between her legs, parting her thighs to look at her sex. 

He dragged one probing finger through her slit, tickling her hard nub, before he proclaimed smugly: “You’re dripping, my dear.” 

“Just take me already!” she almost snarled, and now, he couldn’t help chuckling. 

“Maybe I could get you even wetter,” he mumbled, lowering himself to her mound, breathing in the scent of her arousal. It was a sweet, but heavy smell, inviting, making him want to taste her. _He had never done this with a witch before, though not for lack of witches begging him. It had never seemed interesting enough to do this instead of just fucking. But now…_

He let the tip of his tongue meet her nub, licking it in a broad swipe, and his little wife arched her back with a squeal: “Oh Merlin, Voldemort!” 

“You liked that, huh?” he mumbled, rolling the taste of her on his tongue. It was … good, fuelling his own arousal, and he let his tongue descend on her again, this time licking back and forth through her slit, stopping to suck her clitoris into his mouth. 

She was moaning underneath him, trying to buck her hips, and he pinned her in place with his hands on her hips, before continuing to lick and suckle at her wet lips, even boring his tongue into her tight little hole. When he returned to her nub, she gave a hoarse shout, before she convulsed, trashing in his grip, her breath turning to stuttering gasps, and he could feel her sex twitch against his tongue. 

“Oh please, oh Merlin, oh Voldemort,” she muttered mindlessly, and he chuckled against her sensitive flesh, making her jump. 

“I like that you compare me to Merlin, using my name alongside his,” he growled, wiping his chin free from her juices, but his cock wasn’t into any more conversation. Throbbing, like he’d burst, he fisted himself once to fight the sensation of being on the brink of his orgasm, before lifting her hips, steering his cock to her opening, impaling that hot, wet hole. 

A deep grunt left him as she squeezed so tight around him, her walls massaging and milking his cock, and for a moment, he could swear there was a blazing light behind his eyelids, everything blinking in a stark flash of lightning, rendering his vision as monochrome: harsh contrasts of black against white. There was no point in stalling, his orgasm was almost upon him anyway, so he thrust brutally into her, the wet slapping of their bodies driving him higher. 

With a snarl, he lifted her torso, making her sit in his lap, feeling her breasts slide against his chest, pointy nipples scraping his skin, and she put her hands around his neck, holding him tight as he fucked up into her. Leaning down, he captured her mouth, and as his tongue touched her, his cock exploded into her, making him cling to her, like she was his one fixed point in the universe as his orgasm roared through him, hips jerking to fill her up as much as he could. 

Panting, he came down, and slowly, he lowered her to her back again, before sliding his cock out, followed by the slow trickle of his seed. Heart still hammering, he laid down beside her. 

“That was…” she breathed, but they both knew, there was no point in talking. _It was fantastic. Sex had never been better._

Burying his face in her hair, he took in the scent of her again.

He murmured: “You smell good.” The scent of old parchment, moonflowers, his favourite ink and the rich whiff of a vintage Port was lovely, so familiar, and so very much her. 

At that he caught a drifting thought from her: _That he smelled so good too, just like her Amortentia…_

Voldemort stiffened, drawing in a sharp breath. _Amortentia._ A half-forgotten sensory memory from a long time ago clawed its way to the forefront of his mind. _Amortentia… No wonder he had thought the scent of her to be familiar. He had, in fact smelled this before, all those years ago in the Potions classroom, though he’d never thought he’d meet someone who matched that scent. Now he had, and…_

Swallowing, he inhaled that delicious smell again. His slitted nostrils expanded, and he took a deep breath, feeling a peculiar contentment warring with a strong sense of unease. _Like he had come home, very unexpectedly, as he had never had a home in life, this peaceful contentment being a foreign sensation._

_What did this mean? What was the significance of having a witch in his arms who smelled like his long-ignored Amortentia scent? For most people, the answer would be easy, but not for him. Because he didn’t feel like most people, and yet…_

“You smell so good,” he repeated weakly, and he could feel her smile against his shoulder. 

“How do I smell?” she asked, curiously. _He knew she was thinking about him as her own Amortentia, but right now, it didn’t matter. He was too sated to be bothered by the meaning of all this … this foolishness._

Sighing contentedly, he rattled off: “Like parchment, my favourite ink freshly harvested from the _Kraken,_ moonflowers and a whiff of vintage Port.” 

“Hmm, sounds oddly specific,” she chuckled. For a moment, she paused, before offering: “You smell like parchment too, wood smoke and spice, and freshly mown grass.” 

Like he was compelled, like he couldn’t just _not_ answer, though even _indicating_ this was against all he stood for - _dangerous, giving her a powerful leverage against himself_ \- he said quietly: “Yours is just as oddly specific as mine.” 

That made her turn her head, to look at him. He met her gaze, keeping his face carefully blank, but he knew the message had gone through. _She knew what he meant. She was smart enough to know._

The world stood still, in one breathless moment, before she blinked, her face a pretty, rosy blush, and she breathed out: “Oh.” 

His hands tightened around her shoulders, but wisely, she didn’t push for anything more. She just burrowed her head into his chest, lying still.

For a while, they just rested, bodies too tired to move, two lovers entwined in the afterglow. Then her breath became more steady, her body more relaxed, and he knew she had fallen asleep in his arms. 

It was good, holding her like this, and he felt a strange contentment, listening to her breath as she slept, sometimes feeling little movements from her belly, their son moving about inside her. 

_He had a family. Something he never thought he’d want. Yes, he had planned for an heir, but he hadn’t anticipated he could be this invested. It was like … he cared for them, his witch and his little son, nestling inside her. If he hadn’t known better, he’d think he loved them. But that was impossible, still even after the revelation of the Amortentia. Yet, he knew he needed this. This … comfort. This feeling that she’d be on his side, to protect his son. To support him. His witch, in all senses of the words._

  
  
  


Xxxx

It was a matter of planning and logistics, and Voldemort had watched her, bemused, as she laid out the plan, before nodding. She hated that frisson of excitement travelling her spine, as the most evil wizard in Britain, her husband, approved of her plan. _Her flawless plan, keeping Harry safe, while satisfying Voldemort’s need to vanquish him._ _It was so wrong to be happy by Voldemort's praise._

Severus had seen to the brewing, grumbling at having to follow what he considered to be an archaic, outdated recipe, the effects different than the modern, refined version he preferred. Voldemort had tested the spell she had found, though she suspected he had tweaked it to suit himself, while Hermione … she had been tinkering with her Protean Charm on her coins. 

Now, the coin would lead her straight to Harry, creating a magical conduit that she would be able to follow to the point of Apparating almost on top of him. 

“By all means, Severus, you should join in,” Voldemort said, “if she can Side-Along us both.” 

They were standing just outside the Hogwarts gates, ready to go. A cold wind rustled in the leaves, and the moon was a small sliver of waxing crescent, barely giving light to the night. In the forest beyond, small creatures were tumbling through the underbrush, little squeaks sounding, as something large chased after them. 

Hermione winced, remembering how Ron’s leg had gotten Splinched when they escaped from Grimmauld Place when she Apparated them away from the Ministry all those months ago. _That had put quite a fright in her, resulting in a lack of Apparition confidence, but she reassured herself: She had this in hand, no matter the tension she felt reverberating through her very bones._

“Where are they?” Severus said, and Hermione could tell, the Headmaster was uneasy. _He didn’t trust Voldemort, not at all, expecting him to pull some kind of trick._

Voldemort grinned maliciously. “Oh, tell him, my dear.” 

Reluctantly, she said, knowing how Severus would feel: “He’s in Godrics Hollow.” 

“So very appropriate,” Voldemort purred, as Severus blanched, looking away from them. 

He swallowed, convulsively, before saying softly: “I will go.” His eyes were deep black pools of sorrow. _Entering that house with the wizard who killed the love of his life would be inhumanly cruel, she could see just how badly this affected him._

Hermione took a deep breath, before saying: “Ok, I can do this. Come closer, both of you.” 

Voldemort stepped closer with a swagger, slinging his arm around her waist with an air of ownership, pulling her tightly to him, and though he was standing at her side, she just knew he was glaring at Severus, daring the man to touch her. 

Hesitantly, Snape moved to her other side, gripping her forearm, pressing his chest to her side. 

Squeezed in by the two tall wizards, she fished out the golden Galleon from her pocket, fixing Harry’s location firmly in her mind, feeling the thread of magic connecting the two coins, before turning on the spot. 

Gasping, she almost reeled after coming out of the impossible squeeze of Apparition, but the two men at her side steadied her, holding her upright. 

Two shocked pairs of eyes met hers, belonging to the two other wizards in her life. Severus stepped hastily away from her, like he was afraid of what Voldemort would do if there was prolonged bodily contact. 

The boys were sitting at a table in what must once have been a kitchen, obviously having breakfast, consisting of a can of beans and slightly burnt toast. The room was surprisingly clean, though the view through the open door to the hall showed partly fallen rafters after the Potters’ cottage had collapsed all those years ago. Briefly, Hermione wondered if the boys had been sensible enough to magically secure the house’s stability before they moved in.

Greedily, she took in the sight of her friends, feeling the sudden pang of how much she had missed them. _No matter what they thought, she was still their friend. She would be, forever._

“You,” Harry breathed, staring wide-eyed at them, while Ron scrambled for his wand. 

“Hello Potter,” Voldemort purred, casually Petrifying Ron with a wordless spell. Ron fell over, sideways, lying in an undignified heap beside the table, blue eyes moving frantically, panicky. 

Harry sat still, green eyes meeting hers. “You!” he mumbled quietly, with so much pain, remorse and disappointment in his voice, that Hermione felt her heart break. _She knew what this looked like, and never in a million years would Harry believe she was saving him._

Tremulously, she replied: “Harry…” 

But Harry just shook his head, mouth firming, sparing a glance of contempt at Snape, before fixing his eyes on Voldemort. 

“You’re not more welcome this time than last you came to this house,” he said. 

Voldemot nodded, and only then, was Hermione aware of him stroking the small of her back rhythmically, like he was comforting her, or maybe taking comfort from her presence. Suddenly a thought struck her _: Would Voldemort be nervous? He always seemed like a pillar of cold strength and raw power, but now, he was confronting his nemesis in the place where he had lost so spectacularly the last time. If he had been a normal person, he’d be scared._

Peering up at him, she saw his jaw was set, signifying _something,_ or maybe it was merely concentration. In any case, she pressed herself closer to him, leaning her head against his left arm. 

His right arm, of course, was clutching the Elder Wand. 

“I know,” Voldemort replied, “only this time, I’m not here to kill you. My devious little witch” - _he squeezed her waist as he put emphasis on ‘ **m**_ ** _y_** _’_ \- has devised a way for me to win, without your imminent death. You should thank her. She worked hard for this.” 

Harry growled, eyes flaring, rising from his chair. Hermione noted, he must have gotten a new wand somewhere after their accident during Christmas, because he was brandishing a short, stubby ash wand. 

Voldemort cocked his head, muttering: “That doesn’t seem to suit you, Potter. Are you sure that an ash wand will work for you? They don’t like to switch owners, you know.” 

Harry looked determinedly at Voldemort, like he was the only threat in the room, and Hermione muttered, shaking her head at his carelessness: “Oh Harry, so like yourself, aren’t you?” 

Because Harry wasn’t ready for the strong, wordless “ _Incarcerous!”_ cast by Snape, tying him up in a bundle within the blink of an eye. 

At the same time, a wordless “ _Expelliarmus!”_ ghosted past her, making Harry’s wand clatter to the floor. 

“Thank you, Severus,” Voldemort said, pocketing the Elder wand. “Will you please administer the potion?” 

Harry’s eyes bulged, and Hermione could tell, he was trying to free himself from the thick ropes holding him captured, arms straining against the constraints. She knew Harry wasn’t particularly good with wandless magic, and when Voldemort Levitated the ash wand into the air, before blasting it into saw dust with a small, precise “ _Bombarda!”,_ even Harry could see he was outnumbered. 

Stilling, like he knew there was no point in fighting anymore, he just righted himself, standing straight, his mouth a thin line, but his eyes were desperate, sad, like he knew he was about to die. 

“Harry,” she said, stepping forward. 

Her friend mumbled brokenly: “How could you? I trusted you, Hermione. I vouched for you, and yet here you are?” 

The anguish in his eyes was too much for her, and she almost crumbled, a sob forcing its way out of her throat. 

She felt Voldemort come up to her side, again holding his arm protectively around her. Hermione didn’t need to see his face to know he was staring threateningly at Harry. 

Continuing her speech, she began anew: “Harry, please, we’re not here to kill you, like he said. But you know the Prophecy, and I’ve found a way around it. You can both stay alive, it’s just that… your life will have to wait.” 

Harry stared incredulously at her, and she felt her cheeks burn. 

“My life will have to wait? What the hell does that mean?” 

“It means, Harry, you will…” and then she couldn’t say another word, big fat tears running down her face, as her chest was wracked with sobs, and she leaned into Voldemort for comfort. 

Harry studied her, seeing Voldemort’s arm laying protectively around her, and then he shook his head. 

“You have turned,” Harry whispered slowly, “you really did turn. You are really his witch. How could you sink so low, Hermione?” 

Anguish at what she was doing twisted in her guts, because it was true. She _had_ chosen Voldemort, devising a way of keeping him alive, and just to assuage her guilt, Harry’s life was spared. But his life would be … 

Thinking, she knew she had made that choice moments before marrying the most evil wizard in Britain. 

_At the party at their house, she had told Voldemort of her research:_

_“Of course I’ve heard of the legend of the Sleeping Warriors,” he had said, looking sceptical. “Mythical warriors that can be woken up if the country is in need, or some sort of nonsense.”_

_“Exactly,” she said. “I have reason to believe that the origins of the Draught of Living Death were a part of a spell, sinking the mind into a stasis of death and oblivion, preserving the body for all eternity.”_

_“You are suggesting I do this to Potter?” he said incredulously._

_She nodded. “Harry would be alive, and you can keep your Horcrux. Yet, he will be all but dead, thus fulfilling the Prophecy.”_

_Voldemort considered this, looking at her with something akin to respect. “And you know this archaic spell?”_

_“I do,” she said, a small, triumphant grin on her face. “I pieced it together from tomes I’ve been reading.”_

_“Is this your condition for marrying me?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“So it will be,” Voldemort murmured, lifting her hand to kiss her, lips warm against her hand._

Blinking, feeling her eyelashes brim with tears, she only watched as Severus moved up to Harry, forcing his mouth open by a spell, before producing a phial with a pale lilac potion from somewhere inside his robes. 

Harry’s eyes bulged for a moment, and then he gave a big, sorrowful sigh, eyes trailing to Ron’s prone body lying on the floor, like he took comfort in seeing his friend for the last time. When Snape poured the potion down his throat, his eyes widened, before they fell shut. 

Voldemort raised his arms, chanting: “ _Sopor Aeternam, Maneo Vocatio!”_

The spell had no light, no visible blast of power, but a chill ran through the room, like death itself was present. Harry slumped, falling into Snape’s arms, a peaceful expression on his face. 

Xxxx

The magic had rushed out of him, entering the Boy-Who-Had-Lived, and the result was very satisfying. Potter was, for all purposes, dead to the world. For a moment, Voldemort wondered if he would feel differently, now that he had vanquished Potter. 

And he did, because for the first time in seventeen years, his mind felt at peace, tranquil even. _There was no bundle of confusing emotions at the back of his head, no temperamental outbursts of petty anger or joy._ Voldemort sighed, rolling his shoulders, feeling as if a burden had lifted. 

Slowly, a triumphant smile broke out, twisting his lips. _He had won. He had truly, really won._ His witch was still sobbing quietly, and he pulled her into his body, holding her tightly. _A part of him enjoyed her pain, like he always did when someone was hurting, but at the same time, he relished even more the fact that she had gone through with it. Choosing him, instead of Potter. She had, in fact, been the determining factor in his victory. For that, she deserved a reward. She even deserved_ **_him_** _._

Severus gently lowered the former Chosen One to the floor. Then there was a small rustling from Potter’s robe, and somehow, he knew it was important. 

“ _Accio_!” The garbage and knickknacks from Potter’s pockets flew out, hovering in the air in front of him, and among the candy wrappers, pieces of parchment and condoms, a bedraggled Golden Snitch floated, bobbing slightly, like it tried to free itself from his spell. 

“This was the gift from Dumbledore?” he inquired, and his witch nodded, silently crying. 

Reaching out his hand, he grabbed it, setting an “ _Immobilus_ ” on it, before pocketing it. The remaining garbage he let fall to the floor as he released the Summoning spell. 

“Now what?” Snape asked, face pale and drawn. His gaze was wandering around the house, being repeatedly drawn to the destroyed hall, where the stairs to the first floor could be seen. 

_Well, Severus had performed his part admirably, he could allow him some time to wallow in his misery._

“I’ll take Potter, hiding his body,” he said, “while you,” he pointed at his crying witch, “can clean up this mess.” With his foot, he nudged the still Petrified Weasley. 

“Me?” she said weakly. “Aren’t the two of you better at Obliviates and Mind Magic in general?” 

Voldemort snorted. “From what I gather, you are quite accomplished in doing fairly large Obliviates and inserting false memories, aren’t you?” 

She paled, gaping at him. “You know?” 

Severus looked curiously at the two of them, his own sorrow momentarily forgotten. 

Voldemort shrugged. “I’m not going to harm your parents. It would be a shame to undo such powerful magic, wouldn’t it? You did so well, executing such a devilishly clever plan to foil me. You deserve a reward for being so clever, don’t you think?” 

“Yes…” she whispered. 

Severus asked, an astounded expression on his face: “You Obliviated your own parents?” 

“I did,” she confirmed, looking sad and forlorn. “I Obliviated them and set up new memories, and they moved away to…” she paused, glancing at Voldemort. 

“To Australia,” he said, completing the sentence. 

Her mouth pinched, and she nodded. 

Severus shrugged. “Then you should be competent enough to set an Obliviate on Weasley, making him believe he fell asleep, and when he woke, Potter was simply gone.” 

His little witch sighed, before lowering herself ungracefully to the floor. 

“Ron, I’m sorry, but this is for the best,” she whispered, her voice broken and much too tender for his liking. 

He made a sudden movement to intercept, but Severus shook his head at him, mouthing: “Don’t. Let her be.” 

Voldemort stiffened - _no one should tell him what to do -_ but the warning in Severus eyes made him pause. _Maybe he could allow his witch a last goodbye. Of course, Weasley would be around later on, like she had asked for, but there would be no need for his wife to keep in touch with her former friend._

“ _Obliviate_ ,” she said softly, and her magic drenched the room, feeling like a soft blanket covering the Weasley boy. His eyes fell shut, like he was in a deep sleep, his chest rising gently, soft snores emitting from his half-open mouth. 

Severus flicked his wrist, and the Body-Bind Curse lifted. His lieutenant Levitated the boy, putting him back on his chair. With a disgusted sneer on his face, like he didn’t want to touch the boy, Severus carefully arranged Weasley’s limbs so that his head rested on his forearms. In fact, he looked like he was fast asleep. 

Severus shrugged, saying: “He’ll sleep for a while longer, I believe.” Again, his eyes clouded over with pain, and Voldemort nodded. 

“I’ll remove Potter, and I’ll see you back at the house,” he told his wife. “You, Severus, are dismissed for now. Be sure, you have my gratitude. I will reward you.” 

His lieutenant nodded, a faraway look on his face, and he turned around. “I’ll … just look around,” he said faintly. 

By his side, his wife nudged his arm. “I want to go with you,” she said with a serious expression. “I want to see where you place him.” 

Cocking his head, he surveyed her thoughts. Marvelling at the cool, clear logic she displayed, even when distressed, he could see that she wondered if he’d place Harry somewhere safe, or in a place where he could be harmed by animals, beings or nature itself. _After all, it wasn’t as if Potter could defend himself at the moment._

Smiling crookedly at her, he nodded, surprising her: “Alright. Hold on, then.” 

Voldemort Levitated Potter, feeling somewhat disgusted by holding on to him, while the little witch pressed herself into him, holding one hand protectively on Potter’s arm. 

Turning on the spot, he Apparated them to the cave. 

Xxxx

The mouth of the cave was damp, dark and dreary, and Hermione couldn’t help shivering. Her husband, however, threw a quick Warming Charm over her, making her feel like a warm robe had settled around her shoulder. 

Striding confidently forward, Voldemort disappeared into the cave, Harry trailing after him in the air, hands hanging down like he was utterly relaxed. _Which he was,_ she supposed _._

Hurrying after them, they walked for a while into the cliffside, following the bobbing light of Voldemort’s wand. The sound from the crash of the waves receded, and the interior slowly became drier, sand covering the floor. Occasionally, there was a small crunch of bones breaking underneath their feet, and at times, they had to climb over fallen rocks. 

Abruptly, Voldemort stopped by a lake, before Levitating Harry over to the small island in the middle. When Harry was safely on the ground, he stretched out a hand to her, before whispering “ _Volo.”_

The now familiar feeling of unsupported flight rushed through her, but she also realized this was the first time he’d spoken the incantation for her to hear. A small shiver of excitement ran through her. _This meant she could try it on her own._

Alighting on the island after the short flight, they stood still, looking down at the sleeping Harry. He would lie there, maybe for hundreds of years, until someone woke him up _._ Wincing, she knew she had doomed Harry to return to a time that might be a completely unknown future, when everyone would be dead - maybe even Voldemort. _Unless someone woke him early._

Sighing deeply, she knew that person wouldn’t be herself. Her loyalty was to the Slytherin line, and she had done what she could to save Harry’s life, whatever it would be like when he woke. 

“Will he be comfortable, like that?” she asked, looking at her best friend. Harry looked like he could be asleep, or maybe dead. No one would know the difference until he woke. 

“Comfortable?” Voldemort sounded like he was amused, but then he shrugged. “I don’t think it matters to him for the moment.” 

Shaking her head, she knew, she couldn’t leave Harry like that, slumped on the rocks. Her wand slid out from it’s holster, and she swiftly Transfigured a rock into a narrow cot, turning the sand into a soft mattress, before ripping off a piece of her silk robe to Transfigure a blanket, settling it over his prone body like a blanket, or maybe a shroud. She couldn’t really decide if Harry looked asleep on his cot, or if it looked more like he was laid to rest for a funeral wake.

Voldemort shook his head, before mumbling: “Whatever makes you happy.” 

Happy wasn’t really what she felt like at the moment, but she knew, she had made the right choice. Her son rewarded her with a strong kick to the ribs, as she took his father’s hand. 

Xxxx

Voldemort still felt this deep satisfaction. _He had almost everything. His pretty little witch and his heir, unquestionable power and might, and now Potter was vanquished. That was - almost everything was in place for his total triumph._ Giving his wife a quick glance, he could tell she was preoccupied with her inner thoughts and moral scruples. _She would never notice, he only needed a small surge of power._

Quickly, he entered Potter’s sleeping mind, finding everything curiously still, like his thoughts were blanketed by a deep layer of snow. With a vicious rip, he tore it all apart, destroying the mind of his enemy, sending his thoughts into a flurry of distorted shapes, into something that would never resemble coherent reasoning and memories again, forever broken, forever in ruins.

Taking a deep breath, he checked if his witch had noticed anything, but she was still mourning, still looking at her friend, never knowing that if anyone ever woke up Potter, he’d be like a mindless thing. _Alive, but not conscious._ _Some Sleeping Warrior he’d be. Whoever woke him up would be in for a disappointment._ Voldemort’s lips curled in cruel amusement, but then, a small click came from the pocket of his robe. 

It was the Golden Snitch, the one he had taken from Potter’s pocket. “ _I open at the close_ ,” the inscription had said. One hand shooting into his robe, he found that the Snitch had indeed opened, releasing a heavy stone into his pocket. 

Breathlessly, he clutched it, nudging the stone with his magic. For a few agonizing moments, as his magic searched for proof, his heart felt like it stopped beating. Then it all fell into place. _It was the Stone, the Resurrection Stone._

Standing straighter, Voldemort smiled grimly. _He was now Master of Death. He_ **_would_ ** _live forever, and so would his wife and son. No one could threaten him and his family._

Turning to his wife, he said, voice almost soothingly, his hands running down her spine, caressing the small of her back: “Come, my sweet, let’s return to the house. Potter will sleep safely, while you and I rule the world.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you he's a bastard... 
> 
> Poor Harry though. :'(


	28. Epilogue: Understood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time he thought of his predicament, he felt like groaning. 
> 
> How could the great Lord Voldemort sink so low?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, is it finished? I can’t believe it! This originally-a-oneshot turned into a longshot, that’s for sure…

The small muscles around his eyes twitched, like he was fighting an emotion that he hadn’t expected. “I … I…” Voldemort’s voice was almost a croak, hoarse and raw, and his vision was oddly blurred as he looked down at the black-haired baby boy in his arms. 

_Earlier, he had had so many misgivings before finally deciding to produce an heir. During planning, he had comforted himself by the notion that he could always use the baby as a sacrifice if it didn’t work out as planned. But looking at the small boy in his arms, he knew that would never come to pass. In fact, he’d known that for a very long time, almost since conception. Woe betide_ **_anyone_ ** _harming his heir._

He cleared his throat, and said slowly: “I name you my heir. Welcome to the Slytherin line, little wizard. I name you John Salazar Voldemort.” _He still thought the first name to be ridiculous, but it would make his little witch happy. Though, Voldemort didn’t plan on actually using his son’s first name. He was going to refer to him as Salazar._

Turning to the pale, tired witch on the bed, he said raggedly; “You did well, my darling.” 

The strenuous birth had stretched his tolerance to the limit, and he had barely refrained from hexing the obviously useless midwitches attending his wife, not managing to soothe her pains. 

She however, had been absolutely magnificent, enduring the pains and contractions, squeezing his hand through the worst, panting, sometimes wailing, before at the end of it, she had pushed out their child with a few guttural shrieks. And then the most amazing sound had erupted: His son’s angry yell, as he took his first breath. _He had felt like something cracked inside him, like a heavy wall crumbling down, like a ray of light shining from dark and stormy skies._

Shaking his head at the silliness of the notion, Voldemort shifted on his feet, eyes moving from the boy to his wife. 

_He had enjoyed their life together, much more than he had anticipated. At first, they established a routine of reading by the fireplace in the evenings and discussing magical theory during meals, making them both invigorated, refreshed from their intellectual sparring._

_Most days had been peaceful, but at times, he could feel a storm brewing in her, emotions of a strange and unfathomable kind roiling inside her, of something he thought might be grief, loss or maybe disgust by her own actions. Those times, she hid herself. Sometimes she would go into their training room, resulting in heavy explosions thundering through the house. Other times, he found her wandering the house, clutching her belly, a lost look on her face. That tugged on his heart in a very uncomfortable way, and he’d gather her into his arms, letting her rest her head against his chest. She never said anything, and he never did either._

_Then, ever so slowly, he let her in on discussing his plans, noting that she made valuable contributions to his ideas. Though, she always rooted for a much kinder response than he’d suggested. Sometimes, she was even right, and the results were better for it._

_Her sly suggestion of letting Severus run the trade talks with Portugal had landed the man in the arms of the Portuguese ambassador - the pretty potioneer-turned-diplomat - making sure that Severus finally was on track with his breeding scheme. The fact that the man was now moderately pleased, was something his wife rejoiced in, but personally, he couldn’t care less. Voldemort was more concerned with the strength of the next loyal generation about to be born, requiring all his Death Eaters to breed, until everything and everyone was so firmly under his thumb that no one would ever question him again. Though, Voldemort had been impressed by her callous little shrug, as she mumbled: “At least the two of them can talk about potions, if nothing else.”_

_Standing by his side on formal occasions, she made an imposing figure, treating their subjects with imperial benevolence. It had taken time, though, for her to relax when in the company of his Death Eaters, though he spied a small grin on her face, whenever she managed to upset Bellatrix Lestrange. Truly, she had become his lady, his queen, and now, she had given birth to his heir. What he felt for her and his son, was…_

Every time he thought of his predicament, he felt like groaning. _How could the great Lord Voldemort sink so low?_ He almost shook his head at his own folly, but contented himself by stroking the black hair on his little son’s head instead. The baby yawned sleepily, the small face grimacing, before he fell asleep again, his tiny nose snuffling, like he was searching for something. 

His witch was pale and exhausted, but her eyes were brimming with those emotions that made him feel … _something,_ making his heart beat faster and his need to protect her and his son surging, threatening to overwhelm him. 

She whispered faintly, her voice a hoarse sob from the bed, sheets still smelling of the blood from the birth: “I love you.” 

Voldemort hid his face, nuzzling the fuzzy hair of their infant son. “I know.” Shouldering the responsibility of being human - _a man_ \- for the first time in years, he prepared himself mentally. **_She_ ** _needed to hear it, the witch to whom he had promised himself, she deserved everything after such an ordeal, and he would provide, even though it pained him. Even though he would lose something important to himself: his sense of self, of being self-contained, of being blissfully, singularly alone._

He replied awkwardly, though he refrained from saying that despicable, awful, _impossible_ word: “I do … you, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, it’s a HEA: Voldemort’s HEA, though I’d dare say both Hermione and Severus ended up fairly happy, though not quite as happy as the Dark Lord. When writing this ship, I feel like half of the readers wants Hermione to bash Voldemort’s head in, while the other half wants her to love him. This ended up like a love story through a series of fairly brutal losses, but Voldemort lost in the end too: He lost his sense of being self-contained and self-sufficient. 
> 
> Warning, writer’s rant at self coming up: One thing is absolutely certain, I’ll try my best to never trick myself in writing another oneshot. I’ve written three, and two of them turned into loooong stories. And then there was that fun little drabble ending in a story of 50k plus too… Note to self: No can do oneshots and drabbles, lol. 
> 
> Thank you for reading Sink so Low. Despite the rant, I had great fun writing this. I’m so happy there are other deviants like me out there, because let’s face it: Volmione without a redemption arch isn’t a ship that sails for everyone. Just for you and me. ;-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sink So Low (Undercover)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24646906) by [Luz_Viviana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luz_Viviana/pseuds/Luz_Viviana)




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